


One Step Closer

by comicroute



Series: The Misadventures of Kid Detective Tim Drake [1]
Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: 12!Tim, 14!Jason, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Character Development, Civilian!Tim, Gen, Happy Ending, Jason Todd is Robin, Jason is not dead, M/M, Misunderstandings, Photographer!Tim, Pre-Slash, Secret Identity, Slow Burn, Tim the Batfamily's Personal Stalker, Tim the Kid Detective, so many misunderstandings it's worse than Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-08 02:19:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7739686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comicroute/pseuds/comicroute
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tim  Drake can’t help it, he’s a sucker for mystery and there isn’t a mystery like Batman and Robin. There’s something taboo, forbidden and thrilling to hiding on rooftops for hours just to catch pictures of them in action -- pictures no one else has ever taken. These misadventures lead him to an odd acquaintance with a tire thief named Jay, who becomes an unexpected constant during Tim’s nighttime escapades. </p><p>When Jay disappears and no one will tell him where he’s gone, Tim figures it’s up to him to rescue his friend. But for some reason, amongst his investigations into the strange uprise of human disappearances around Gotham, Robin is there, preventing Tim from getting into too much trouble -- and trying to keep him away from his search for Jay.</p><p>The network of kidnappings only seems to keep getting bigger and bigger, until Tim finally turns his sights to the one percenters of the city, because Bruce Wayne is acting suspicious and Tim will find a connection to these human disappearances if it’s the last thing he does. After all, rarely are people ever what they seem, and in Gotham, rich money is always dirty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***IMPORTANT: This is the map I’m using for Gotham -- http://batmangothamcity.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/gotham-city1.jpg ***
> 
> Finally posting this! I spent the entire day indoors to crank this out in my excitement. This is my first time that I'm for sure definitely writing romance. It'll all be cutesy kid love with the slowest burn imaginable. You're welcome.
> 
> I can't promise how dark this is going to get, because I do foresee some disturbing material, but nothing will ever get particularly intense. This also has no 'time skips' because those always break my heart and I believe this world severely lacks in Robin!Jason.
> 
> ***I won't be writing Jason's accent so thick forever. Mainly, I wrote it that way to show that it is, indeed, an accent. It's created more through slurring his words or using slang, though, maybe mixed a little with an accent like Boston. It's something that, with more effort, can be polished and changed.***
> 
> Enjoy!

Tim has never been more happy for summer than he is right now. It isn’t usually warm in Gotham, but today, with the cloud cover and balmy temperature, even the stone rooftop he’s laying on isn’t cold enough to give him the chills. He hopes he doesn’t need sunscreen, he’s never had a sunburn only for the reason that he never sees the sun and he’s heard even cloudy days can leave an impression, but he doesn’t care enough to think long on it.

He’s been waiting here for hours to get the smallest glimpse of Batman and Robin. He was here yesterday, too, but no dice. Tim feels like he’s starting to put together a pattern, routes, for the patrols (and he’s starting to call them patrols now because he has this feeling that’s what they are -- it’s not like they wait in one spot, waiting to see what’ll happen, like Tim is currently doing) but sometimes they’ll veer off course and not show up at all. Those instances are normally correspondent to seeing the bat symbol in the sky, or a large commotion of police sirens, so Tim has a good idea as to why.

Even just knowing this much is thrilling, an adrenaline rush unprecedented for Tim. The way Batman is whispered in the streets makes him out to be larger than life -- a random phenomenon no one can prepare for, only hope to escape. But seeing this, a routine, a habit, is so  _ human  _ that Tim feels like he’s encountered something spectacular, even though, logically, most people know Batman is only a man (somewhere buried deep in the back of their subconscious, at least).

But while Batman is the supernatural element to most people, Robin is what catches Tim’s attention. He’s older than Tim, but not by much, and there’s something fundamentally familiar about him, like he’s someone Tim’s ran into on the street years before. That’s what makes it all so intriguing. The idea that people so enigmatic can be, at the same time, just like Tim, only a puzzle piece in the big city amongst hundreds of other pieces fitted imperfectly together.

He also feels like a spy, and it helps that Skyfall is currently the song playing in his headphones, but that’s not important.

Dusk has finally settled into twilight. Normally, people would think that’s too early for the Bat and the bird to be out and about, but right now, Tim isn’t concerned with what other people think -- he’s concerned with his theory. The theory that, if Batman and Robin have a routine, they must start from somewhere.

Tim first started to suspect a pattern when he was flipping through the pictures on his camera, all taken in alleys and intersections on the direct east side of the railroad tracks in Robbinsville. He lives just down a few streets from the tracks, never thought that he would have to stray very far to catch a glimpse of the dynamic duo if they truly did intend to stop all crime, and instead kept moving to reports of where they’ve been spotted before. Somehow, he managed to always come home at the same time each night after catching them, despite waiting for hours beforehand. Every picture on Tim’s camera is timestamped, and it was while looking through them and picking the best once just last month that Tim had a breakthrough.

They were all taken at around 11:30PM. And only on certain days of the week. As if there’s a schedule the two were sticking to, designated times to be in Robbinsville for the crimes that won’t make the headlines.

That’s when Tim started working his way up. If there’s a routine, then he’s going to find it. If Batman and Robin normally show up in Robbinsville on Wednesdays, he wants to know where they’re going. If they’re at Sprang Bridge by 11:30PM, then he’s going to find where they are at 10.

He has a [map of Gotham](http://batmangothamcity.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/gotham-city1.jpg) beside him, a rock acting as a paperweight. If Batman and Robin travel by rooftops, Tim doubts they’re going to bother following the grid pattern of the roads. Essentially, they can work in whatever direction they want. So now, Tim is laying flat on his stomach in the very outskirts the Upper East Side, a 30 minute travel from home if he really books it, 20 minutes if he runs (an hour if he walks). If the duo don’t show by 11:30, he’ll leave. This is his perch and schedule for the rest of the week, and the data he records only counts if there aren’t any other immediate crisis’ occurring (if there are, he’ll come back the same time next week). He has a notification system ready to alert him on his mother’s phone, which he takes every night when he sneaks out because he doesn’t have his own, monitoring Arkham Asylum’s activity, and another one connected to the Gotham Gazette which also has its office in Burnley (thankfully, they have a ridiculously active Twitter page).

It isn’t enough. Tim knows he needs to get a police radio, but he doesn’t know how and he doesn’t want to steal one (he can’t tell if it’s because being caught wouldn’t be worth it or if he knows the vigilantes would be disappointed). What he really needs is to find something he can connect to the police’s radio. Something that will pick up their broadcasts. He hasn’t figured out how to do that yet. Nonetheless, he has a chart pinned up to his wall of all the common codes police use to describe immediate crime. He has about a quarter of it memorised by now.

He turns his iPod off when it switches to his mother’s Lady Gaga albums and sticks it into the bottom of his pockets. The thing is small, a shuffle that his mother had when she was barely an adult. Tim can’t be more grateful for it. He doesn’t exactly live in the slums, per say, but it still isn’t wise to bring anything around with him that might help him get mugged, especially when he’s walking around alone at the darkest time of night. Tim can’t recall if he got the idea to stick to rooftops from the dynamic duo or just his own logic, but there are enough fire escapes connecting enough buildings that Tim can make it half way home from here without his feet ever touching the ground, and with that brings a sense of security. He may be stupid, sneaking around at night alone with a nice looking camera hanging around his neck, but at least he isn’t stupid about being stupid.

The time on his mother’s phone reads 10:15PM. Tim can hear voices down in the alley below and peers out with his camera, but there’s no fighting. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but when the shady looking one gives a stack of cash to the one in the suit, Tim snaps a shot anyway. With all the photos he has of shady deals, he might as well start a collage. The face of the man in the suit looks vaguely familiar, so he zooms in and waits until the face is revealed to him better to take another photo, but it still brings with it no concrete recognition so Tim doesn’t think too hard on it.

When 11PM rolls around, Tim thinks he manages to catch a glimpse of a red and yellow uniform, but it’s gone when he blinks. At 11:15PM, Tim decides that he’s done and starts to haul home.

This continues for a week before Tim decides to head further into the Upper East Side. He’s never bothered to travel past what he can see from the Sprang Bridge, he’s never had reason to, but it’s very possible that Batman and Robin simply aren’t patrolling the immediate vicinity of the bridge and Tim needs to be certain before he can hypothesise that they aren’t reaching the Upper East Side before Robbinsville.

It’s risky, but not as risky as going further north would be. The neighbourhoods Tim is entering are far better than his own -- after all, they eventually lead to the harbour and then the fashion and financial districts. But in the long run, it doesn’t make a huge difference. Gotham is a city that never sleeps, and crime isn’t only rampant in pockets.

He’s behind schedule. It’s already 11PM by the time Tim starts getting into the heart of the Upper East Side. He had misjudged the distance according to the map and walked slower than was needed. Quickly scouting for a perch, Tim finds himself in front of a tall apartment complex. He has about a minute of hesitation, his reclusive personality attempting to shy away from the easiest method to get to the roof, and takes a breath before clicking the buzzer next to the first name that he sees.

“Hello?” a filtered man’s voice comes through the speaker. He sounds pissed.

“Oh, uh, I--” Tim starts, but he suddenly really doesn’t want to bother a guy who sounds like he already wants to strangle Tim, so he quickly says ‘nevermind’ and tries the button underneath. “Hi,” he tries again when he hears a chirpy kid’s voice. “I’m trying to throw a surprise party for my brother, but he’s not here to buzz me in yet. Could you let me in?”

He feels a grin of victory break out over his face when the door is immediately opened. Kids and their love for surprise parties is universal, really.

It takes him a little while to find the elevator because he’s too nervous to look around for anyone to ask, he doesn’t want to stick out like a sore thumb as a newcomer. When Tim eventually finds it in a corner on the otherwise of a doorless doorway, he immediately presses the highest number.

While nothing looks beaten down, this apartment complex looks a little worn, and the elevator takes a while to move up and stops with a jolt. Normally Tim wouldn’t mind, but he’s anxious and behind schedule and ends up running out of the elevator like a bat out of hell to find the stairs. He finds them at the end of the hall, then runs up a flight of them and finally bursts out onto the rooftop.

It’s 11:12PM. Tim presses his camera to his eyes and hopes to catch a glimpse of something, but he’s late and twenty minutes is hardly a sufficient amount of waiting time to see anything having to do with the masked vigilantes. Thirty minutes pass when Tim gives up, and he’s almost back to the bridge when he hears a familiar cackle and spins around to see the tail end of a yellow and black cloak disappear over the edge of a building.

It’s midnight. Tim nods to himself, satisfied.

* * *

His satisfaction doesn’t last for long. If the dynamic duo have a routine, and on the same days that they normally go to Robbinsville they also hit the Upper East End later than they hit Robbinsville, then they’re moving from north to south (roughly, considering Gotham doesn’t face exactly north). Tim pins his map of Gotham to his (now very cluttered) corkboard on his wall, drawing a path from Robbinsville to the Upper East End in red sharpie, going through the Sprang River instead of over one of the many bridges because he’s uncertain as to which one they’re using. He writes 00:00 under the map’s Upper East End label.

Looking at the path it’s forming, Tim pales. The most logical way to confirm their now supposed route is to now start looking north, to where they show up before they go to Robbinsville. But…

North of Robbinsville is Crime Alley.

Technically, only the tail end of the Upper East End is actually south of Robbinsville, but Tim is only looking for the general direction of where they’re coming from. To get further inland from Robbinsville at all requires passing through either Crime Alley or the Bowery. While Crime Alley is the name coined to the few blocks above the Bowery by residents due to its horrid crime rate (to the point that the rumours say to enter there at all means to come to terms with the idea of being murdered), the Bowery isn’t much better, being dubbed the worst neighbourhood in all of Gotham. Even to drive anywhere, Tim knows for a fact that his parents always travel by the expressway, avoiding it altogether.

If Tim can’t go there by car, there’s no way he can go there by foot.

(...He wonders what the chances of getting murdered are if he goes during the day.)

* * *

Another week is wasted before Tim summons up the courage to continue his earlier train of thought. If his parents think he’s out with a friend at Sheldon Park, well, what they don’t know won’t hurt them.

Crossing under the expressway and over the train tracks, Tim immediately feels the urge to turn on his heels and run back. All that rolls through his mind as company now are the horror stories, and really, he should not be this afraid when he’s only travelled a mile or two from home but he definitely is. Emerging on the other side of the beaten down train station, more graffiti paints the walls than Tim has seen in his entire neighbourhood, and he certainly doesn’t live in a wealthy one. It causes him to reevaluate when he knows about the city as he walks down the street in what he assumes, by all the low-income housing signs, is the Bowery. Anything to take his mind off of the fact that he’s still heading north.

Everything here is crammed. And by here, he means all of Gotham -- centuries of history and architecture and development all shoved together, pieces stuck there hundreds of years apart forced into being awkward neighbours. Old Gotham is miles south, yet here, surrounded by the slums and ghettos, Tim gets the impression that where he’s standing is older (it’s not). Logically, the oldest parts should be placed together -- yet, they’re glaringly separated by the hussle of the large tourist district, the modernised shopping malls and parks and high class business-people. One street alone can split apart the wealthiest of the nation and the poorest, like someone crawled on all fours and carved it into the asphalt. A family meal in Chinatown can cost 30 bucks, while the same meal can cost 90 just a mile east. A coffee has a two dollar difference depending on if you’re a foot inside the gates of Chinatown or a foot outside of it.

Police response time has a difference of two to five minutes depending on if you live in a ghetto or a small apartment down the block from one.

The most staggering difference that always strikes Tim, however, and no matter how many years he lives in Gotham he will never cease to be fascinated by it, is the dramatic shift in clothing and style. Even the way people hold themselves. On one street the majority of everyone is dressed in what could probably double as curtains, shoulders hunched and faces dirty, but turn the corner and there are crowds of people in fitted suits and perfectly trimmed beards, immaculately gelled hair talking on the latest smartphone, only a few feet away. Yet, they will never mix. 

The rich and poor divide of this crumbling city is written in blood.

The hairs on Tim’s arms and neck are prickling, and he can’t help the shudder that works down his spine. He has nothing but a vague idea of where he’s going. He didn’t grab his usual camera from home, either, instead has a handheld disposable one tucked away safely in his deep pockets. Tim tried to wear the oldest, rattiest thing he owns, but his mother is nothing if not diligent about throwing things away and he still feels like he’s too conspicuous.

Tim doesn’t think this area is too used to newcomers, and he’s suddenly self-conscious. He tries to convince himself that he’s only walking, there’s no reason for anyone to take notice of him, but that’s a hard thing to talk himself into believing when the second he passes a porch where two older dark-skinned teenagers are talking, they shut up and stare as he goes on his way. When he’s a few feet past, they start shouting after him and laughing.

He’s not going to die. He’s not going to die.

Can they smell fear?

Tim has to stop on the sidewalk and force himself to take a deep breath. He’s being ridiculous. They’re just people. People who live in an area infamous for its violence, but people. He only needs to keep his head down.

Or does he need false bravado? Isn’t that what’s most important? Chin up and pretend he has more confidence than he’s ever had in his life, hold himself like he’s significant and no one will want the trouble? Isn’t meekness what’s really going to get him picked at like a barely living mouse by a vulture?

No matter how much he reasons with himself, however, Tim can’t bring himself to act like he knows what he’s doing and stares resolutely at the cracked concrete. 

Not going to die. Not going to die.

“Aye, cracker!” Totally going to die.

Tim keeps his head down and walks a little faster, but as all the movies have shown, it doesn’t work. Mainly because the boy who shouted at him is standing right in front of him on the sidewalk.

And he’s tall. Really tall. Tim is also really short, but. Wow. There’s another guy sitting on the porch of another narrow, paint-flaking house a few feet away.

“What’cha doin’ in this parta town?” Big Guy #1 says, walking closer.

Tim didn’t do enough research. Are there bad parts  _ in  _ the Burrows? Are there certain streets not to cross? And god dammit, Tim didn’t even think about gang territories, did he? He likes to believe he’s not usually this impulsive.

The guy is tall. He has long legs. Tim is short. The guy knows the neighbourhood. Tim doesn’t. The guy will probably have friends to help. Tim won’t. Running is not a good idea.

Better idea than staying.

The moment Big Guy #1 takes another step forward, Tim darts across the street and starts running like hell (he should be running  _ back,  _ that’s the  _ smart  _ thing to do, but no, of course he’s  _ still running north).  _ He hears shouts behind him and when he glances back, the one who blocked his way is running across the street towards him.

He urges his legs to pump faster. Tim’s shoes are slapping the pavement almost painfully but he doesn’t let up, veering off the street and over a short, flimsy fence, across a yard and over the fence again. Driveways, down more streets, still facing what he hopes is the same general direction until the houses become scattered and he ducks quickly into an alley and--

“Oomphf!”

God, his chin hurts. But when Tim looks down, he figures the head of the poor boy he unintentionally assaulted hurts worse. They’re on the ground of a completely filthy alleyway and Tim’s hand and leg is in a puddle he would probably be able to convince himself is rainwater except for the fact that it’s pitch black, and he’s on top of the back of some groaning kid who doesn’t look much older than himself. He freezes, gaping in horror as the boy attempts to push himself up and clutch the back of his head with more curses falling out of his mouth than Tim has ever heard.

The boy twists around and scowls at him, “Geddoff me,” he grunts. Tim scrambles to comply.

“I am so, so sorry, are you okay, I didn’t--I was--”

Tim is blatantly ignored. “Is ya chin made’a bricks or somethin’?” the kid exclaims, rolling onto his back and sitting up, still clutching his head. Instead of Tim, he’s staring at the alley entrance like something’s about to pop out and grab him. “What’re y’runnin’ from?”

The way he talks surprises Tim at first, until he realises that technically he’s the one with the accent because the kid talks like he’s from the slums and, well.

“I--,” Tim glances behind him. There’s no one chasing him. “Uh…”

The boy rolls his eyes and gets up. “Nevermind,” he says. He casts a weird glance up and down Tim, and whatever he sees makes him scoff. He begins to turn away.

But this is Tim’s chance. Even if the first impression was...less than desirable, this is the first person Tim hasn’t felt the urge to run away from, probably because it’s already been a minute and the person has yet to call him a racial slur (which would be a bit hypocritical) or look like they want to eat him alive. “Wait!” he calls before he can stop himself. The kid has walked a foot away and is rolling a...oddly enough, a tire, behind a dumpster.

The boy doesn’t even look at him. “Ya lost?”

“Yes. No,” Tim frowns. The kid stops and finally turns to him, looking at Tim with a weird expression Tim can’t decipher. “Uh,” and suddenly, Tim feels ridiculous. Chasing Batman and Robin on his own is one thing, but talking about them outloud, admitting that he wants to find them is like asking someone for directions to the nearest CIA base. Before the boy can become exasperated, Tim decides to spit it out. “I...have you seen Batman and Robin around here?”

A very awkward moment follows, where the boy with one hand on his suspicious looking tire stares at Tim, face blank except for his raised eyebrows. Then the corner of his mouth quirks, as if he’s about to laugh, and he angles his eyes skyward like he’s asking for help from the heavens. “Kid, don’t’cha know not even the Bat and his brat touch this dump?”

Tim frowns, bemused. “What?”

The kid brings his eyes down, giving Tim another once over. “I said, they never come ‘round here.” Tim still doesn’t know how to respond. The boy narrows his eyes. “Fanboy or stalker?”

“Huh?” asks Tim eloquently.

“You a fanboy, or stalker? ‘Cause anyone can tell from’a mile away that you’re not from ‘ere, and if you’re a fanboy y’really better book it. But if you’re a stalker, well, I guess you’re not too different from the rest’a the lowlifes.”

That response doesn’t inspire much confidence in Tim about the type of ‘lowlifes’ in these parts, but then again, he didn’t have any confidence coming in. He decides to ignore it. He’s not a stalker, and he’s not a fanboy. Just a curious third party. That’s all. “I just...don’t get it,” he mutters, almost to himself. Surprisingly enough, the boy is still listening. “This place has the highest crime rate in all of Gotham. Not even the police like dealing with it. If vigilantes are going to try and clean up anywhere, this should be their first stop.”

The other teenager only shrugs. “Dunno what’s so shockin’. Boys in blue supposed to do the same, right? They get paid for it.” He theatrically gestures around them, to the graffiti and grime covered alley walls. “Yet, where are they when we need ‘em? Your precious Batman probably doesn’t wanna step his fancy foot in trash like this.”

When Tim doesn’t answer, just stares at the ground in thought and runs his thumb over the camera in his pocket, the kid continues, sticking his thumb over his shoulder towards the alley entrance as he turns his back to Tim: “Your type don’t belong here. Better move y’fancy ass before y’get mugged.”

Tim watches for a second as the boy walks to the other open end of the alley. It’s ridiculous, he has no idea who this person is, but suddenly the world seems too big and the streets are far too daunting to traverse alone. Before he can talk himself out of it, he runs after the other boy, hoping all the while that he isn’t being too intrusive. “Wait!”

“What now?” the boy glares, but he doesn’t move to punch Tim or anything so Tim figures that’s the most friendly response he’s going to get in these parts.

Tim stammers for a moment, ready to say ‘I don’t want to be alone’ but figuring that isn’t what the other boy wants to hear from someone he probably already considers pathetic. “I don’t really have anywhere to be, so…”

The boy snorts. “So y’figured I’m the best company? Your standards must be pretty low.”

Tim scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. “Is it okay if I hang around?”

A shrug, but no verbal answer.

Tim stops following, stands a few steps back when the boy suddenly kneels to the ground in front of a white Mazda CX-5 in the parking lot on the other end of the alley. He watches in bewilderment as…

As the boy takes out a lug wrench and begins smoothly removing the lug nuts. Tim frowns. “Is the tire flat?”

The kid smirks like Tim isn’t privy to a personal joke. “If it was flat, I wouldn’t be takin’ it off.”

Another few minutes past in silent confusion for Tim. He feels like he’s starting to understand something when the boy slides a jack from under the opposite side of the car. One of the tires is already missing. Before he can ask another question, though, there’s a loud shout followed by profuse swearing that splits the air.

“Hey! The fuck d’ya think--” A man is running towards them, pointing his finger. He’s wearing an off-white cotton top and loose jeans and a backwards cap and he’s very, very big.

The boy doesn’t even hesitate. “Shit,” he curses beneath his breath, thrusting the lug wrench into Tim’s arms and causing Tim to stumble back as the boy grabs the jack and speeds right past. When Tim doesn’t move in his shock, just clutches the lug wrench to his chest and stares in horror at the rapidly approaching man-hulk, the boy runs back and elbows him fiercely in the side. “Move, dammit!”

That gets Tim going. The boy is much faster than Tim, even with the hefty weight of the jack (he must be used to it, Tim realises with dread). Tim manages to reach the entrance of an alley (a different one than before) in time to watch the other teenager throw the jack into a dumpster. Tim throws the lug wrench in with it instinctually before the lid can close, but it doesn’t. Instead, the boy tosses the lid open all the way, heaves himself onto the edge with his arms, and lets himself fall inside. Tim wants to hesitate, but then he hears the shouts behind him and instantly scrambles after him.

He’s shorter and his arms are closer to noodles than anything with significant strength, so the boy has to kneel on the many garbage bags and grab Tim by the back of his shirt to drag him in after him. The lid is kicked closed. Tim feels himself collapse onto something hard with his shirt halfway over his face and has an aching suspicion that he just got thrown onto the tire jack. Before he can say anything (such as a cry of pain), a hand is thrown over his mouth (and, fortunately, some of his nose because oh god this is the last time he ever voluntarily goes dumpster diving).

The next five minutes are filled with the sounds of running footsteps, swearing, racial slurs, shouts, and death threats. Tim’s mouth isn’t uncovered until a few minutes after everything goes silent, and the-boy-who-threw-him-on-a-tire-jack spends a couple seconds after that cautiously opening the lid of the dumpster and peering out. The coast is apparently clear, because he immediately tosses the lid open.

“That is the  _ last  _ time I’m being chased today,” Tim exclaims angrily, attempting to get to the edge of the dumpster but finding that it’s far more difficult than he gave it credit for. He keeps sinking, and he really doesn’t want to know what he’s sinking into, oh god, ew, he’s definitely diving into the ocean before going home, gross, gross--

“I’m Jay,” is not the response Tim is expecting.

He doesn’t mean to be rude, but, “Excuse me?” Tim glares.

‘Jay’ only smirks. “You carried my lug wrench for me. ‘Least I can do is introduce myself.”

“Oh, uh,” Tim suddenly feels bad. “I’m Tim.” Until he realises what just happened. His glare returns full force. “And you’re a thief!”

And, really, Jay doesn’t look the least bit shameful. “So? Y’didn’t ask what I was doin’ before following me.”

Jay is right, too. Dammit, Tim swears he’s  _ not  _ usually this impulsive. He doesn’t answer, instead groaning in annoyance as he attempts to  _ swim  _ out of the dumpster while Jay climbs out with ease. The bastard fishes out his tools, inspecting them long and hard with expressive theatrics while Tim stops to scowl angrily at him before deciding to  _ eventually  _ help Tim out.

This isn’t normally how Tim makes friends, but then again, Tim doesn’t really make friends. He figures this is why.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAP OF GOTHAM: http://batmangothamcity.net/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/gotham-city1.jpg
> 
> I actually finished this chapter yesterday. The same day I posted chapter 1. But, you know, I'm evil so I decided that a day's wait should be the minimum between updates.
> 
> Since there's a real plot to this story (I'm regretting it, actually, now I just want to write Tim and Jason solving mysteries like Sherlock and Watson), and I know I definitely want to have the opportunity to write another one-shot (or multi-chapter) after I'm done that features this universe as it currently is, I know I need a small time gap to fit the other stories in this series without overlapping with the rest of this current story. Therefore, right now, Tim is 10 and Jason is 12. By the end of this story, Tim will be 12 and Jason will be 14 (as it says in the summary). That leaves 2 years for me to play around with later.
> 
> Now, onto the story!

Tim leaves Jay’s side when darkness starts to fall. He doesn’t want to, but Jay none-too-subtly declares that he won’t be babysitting Tim and it’s not his problem if the ‘rich kid’ gets kidnapped, so Tim heeds his thinly veiled advice.

He thinks he’s doing pretty well until he starts heading back in the direction that he came from and Jay’s looking at him all confused for a minute before finally asking where he’s going.

“Home,” Tim answers bluntly.

“You live in the neighbourhoods?” Jay inquires in accusation. There’s something harsh about the way that he says it. Tim files the information away for later. By neighbourhoods, Tim assumes he means the Bowery.

“No. Robbinsville,” corrects Tim.

“Then why are y’headin’ to the neighbourhoods?”

Tim scratches the back of his neck. Nervous habit. He’s taking the long way around, he knows it, but he doesn’t want to spend more time in Crime Alley than he has to and crossing the train tracks east from here means walking across the entire stretch. He’d rather walk through the neighbourhoods. “Crossing there is closer to my house,” he says instead.

There’s silence for a few beats. Jay had returned to stealing tires when the angry man had left, gravitating towards a different parking lot, and Tim had reasoned that the sense of security of being around someone who knows these parts overrides Tim’s natural inclination to call the police at the slightest sign of crime. He wonders if he can now be arrested for aiding and abetting theft. Right now, Jay is sitting on the hood of a black Honda CR-V (when Tim asked how Jay keeps finding nice cars in the worst part of town, Jay declared that A) he has practice, and B) tourists are dumb) swinging his legs because, like Tim, they don’t reach the ground. Abruptly, he stills and stares at Tim with his forehead all scrunched up.

Tim had quickly realised that when Jay stares at someone, it means he’s probably counting all the ways in which they are truly an idiot.

“Are you vaccinated?”

“What?” Tim’s expression is probably hilarious.

Jay makes a great show of scooting away from Tim. “Better check, ‘cause y’might have TB.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Surprised y’weren’t mugged,” Jay continues on, as if he hadn’t heard. “Or stabbed.” When he catches Tim’s unamused and slightly frightened face, he shrugs. “Some really sick bums and bag ladies out there. Actually sick, like they probably all have TB, and then they’re kinda crazy, y’know. Got a bad habit a’jumpin’ people who cross under the bridge by the abandoned station.”

Under the expressway bridge by the old train station is exactly where Tim crosses. There had been no one walking around, though. Just blankets and tents set up. Maybe he got lucky. He stares at Jay in horror while Jay just stares back incredulously. “Oh god,” he mutters, feeling shudders work their way down his skin. “Where...where should I cross, then?”

“The park,” Jay says flippantly, leaning back so the back of his head is resting on the car windshield.

“But that’s…” That means walking all the way through Crime Alley. Alone. He feels dread bubble up in his stomach.

Jay eyes him for a second. “Really didn’t think this through, didja?”

Tim just scowls at him and decides to hell with it. He walks the block it takes to be completely out of Jay’s sight, and then breaks out into a run as fast as his legs can carry him. When he passes beneath the bridge, he feels like he can finally take a deep breath for the first time in years, then promptly goes swimming in the ocean bordering the park before heading home because he still smells like trash. He figures wet clothes are easier to explain.

Tim doesn’t even approach the idea of going back to Crime Alley for another week after his first encounter (though he does take that week to buy a small can of pepperspray and pocket knife). On the night of his parents’ anniversary, he discovers that they’re going to the casino after dinner and takes advantage of that opportunity to follow the Sprang River all the way to Burnley, spending the entire night there with nothing to show for it.

He finds, however, that his mind is no longer occupied with the anticipation of an appearance by the two resident vigilantes. Tim is certainly thinking about them, but instead of thinking about their schedule, he’s thinking about their route. Mainly, that of Crime Alley.

The reason Batman and Robin don’t approach Crime Alley could, plausibly, be because Batman doesn’t want to expose Robin to it.

But that wouldn’t make any sense, because it isn’t uncommon knowledge that Robin has faced both the Joker and Two-Face and survived. There was a headline last month that’s still in everyone’s heads about a huge showdown with Poison Ivy in Robinson Park that ended in explosions and an entire apartment complex catching on fire. Tim could see the smoke clouding the sky from his bedroom window. Yet when the night was over, Robin was the one to hand deliver Ivy to the authorities.

It doesn’t fit.

He needs to go back.

So, exactly nine days after his last appearance, he finds himself walking through the few blocks dubbed as the worst of Gotham by the route Jay had suggested. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for and he figures asking Jay is as good a start as any, but Tim has no idea where the thief is.

He heads to the parking lot, but once he gets to the semi-familiar area he finds that he doesn’t want to leave. Not without someone who knows what they’re doing. So instead of wandering around looking for the street boy, he sits himself on a curb and waits.

For hours.

“Scrap? That you?” comes a surprised voice, finally, two hours after Tim sat down. He’s already beaten his high score on Subway Surfers three times. Tim’s head shoots up so fast he gets whiplash and stuffs his mother’s phone back into his pocket (she forgot it in the kitchen before going to work this morning). “Wow, it is.”

Jay’s look is one of uncertain shock, like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do, standing there awkwardly and Tim feels the same way. He’s immediately embarrassed. Jay clearly never expected to see him again, and honestly, Tim hadn’t expected to see him either. In Jay’s eyes, there’s no reason Tim should be a frequent visitor.

Then, as if someone flipped a switch, Jay’s awkward uncertainty changes to something like swagger and a smirk grows on his face like a second skin. Tim is momentarily relieved. It’s a lot easier to trust the knowledge of someone (someone he really shouldn’t trust, Tim is digging himself into a deep hole here) who doesn’t look as confused as him. “So, what brings a lil’ lady like yourself to this fine hell?”

Tim frowns, getting up and brushing himself off. “Not a lady,” he mumbles. Jay’s smirk grows wider. He pauses to take a deep breath, but finds that he still can’t force the truth out of his mouth. He suddenly feels so small.

Jay’s smirk drops a little as he moves to check over his shoulder towards the street. “Come on,” he says, gesturing towards a connecting alley. “Not here.”

They walk side by side, Jay checking around them as surreptitiously as possible. It isn’t sneaky enough for Tim not to notice, though. Tim kicks a pebble with his toe and digs his fists deep into his pockets, to the point where the elastic of his shorts starts dragging down his hips.

Tim opens his mouth, but Jay beats him to it. “So?” Jay asks expectantly. When Tim just looks at him, knocked off his train of thought following why Jay is acting so jumpy, Jay rolls his eyes. “Why’re you here?”

“Oh,” Tim responds. “I’m…”

Before Tim can admit to the real reason, Jay slams an open palm on his chest, bringing both of them to an abrupt halt and causing Tim to yelp. They’ve been walking down an alley parallel to the street, one that runs behind all the adjacent alleyways and curves around the back of stores and restaurants. Right now, they’re standing behind a pizzeria, and Jay is perked up like a guard-dog, watching the mouth of the next alley intensely.

After a few seconds, Tim whispers his name tentatively. Jay shushes him and grabs his shirt sleeve, slowly starting to tug him beneath the canopy of the pizzeria. Tim doesn’t think the funky striped roof is going to protect them from whatever Jay’s running from.

Another couple seconds pass, but Tim is no longer looking into the alley like Jay. He’s staring at the back door of the pizzeria. Jay doesn’t notice and Tim can feel his shirt tighten from the way Jay’s fist curls firmly into the fabric.

A shadow falls into view. The moment Jay’s eyes turn towards the dumpster beside them, Tim’s own eyes widen. “No!” he hisses, grabbing Jay by the side of his faded black hoodie. Tim is _not_ going back in a dumpster. “I’m not trash.”

Jay’s mouth opens into a small ‘o’ and he doesn’t answer, whipping his head back to look at the alley. But that’s not going to help their situation.

What is going to help is the chef that just opened the back door to the pizzeria.

This time, _Tim_ is the one to yank on Jay’s clothes so hard that the taller boy stumbles to the side. He doesn’t let up. The chef, a lanky young man with long blonde hair flopping over his eyes, squawks in surprise and indignation as Tim shoves him aside in order to grab at the door before it can close. “Sorry!” he shouts as he throws the door open and pulls Jay after him.

Immediately, they’re assaulted by the smells and heat. Tim can’t pick it apart in the cloud, but he does shiver because the warmth radiating from the ovens is a sharp contrast against his skin, even though the weather isn’t as chilly today as Gotham is normally known for. Tim is right in assuming that the back door automatically locks from the outside because the very moment the door closes, the sound of banging starts. It causes some people to look up from their posts.

Counters and and glass top stoves are scattered across the room like a maze. Dough hangs from pillars next to all sorts of herbs and a few cases of unchopped meat. There’s a waft of spices that floods Tim’s nose from the tabletop to his right. Everyone is in a classic chef's uniform, floppy white hats and all.

Jay gasps at the sudden sensory overload but still manages to choke out: “You couldn’t of just found a Pizza Hut?”

“Hey! You shouldn’t be in here!” A plump middle-aged woman declares, a butcher’s knife in her hand and that’s when Tim decides that despite all the great smelling food, he doesn’t want to stick around.

At least Jay knows how to book it. Someone moves  to open the back door and Tim moves to evade them by running down the aisle between the workers pounding dough. Jay happens to make it a little more dramatic.

It’s probably not on purpose. The poor kid is shoved to the side by the man who runs for the door and to catch himself, he tries grabbing the counter. But unfortunately, the place he tries to support himself using his arm is already occupied by a draining bowl, so Jay’s arm falls inside of it and so does all of his weight, and then the bowl is skidding down the marble top, and there happens to be a stepping ladder in the way and Jay crashes into it, bringing with him the draining bowl filled with wet noodles, a slab of beef on the line hanging from the ceiling that Jay grabs in an effort to prevent his fall, what’s probably a pound of parsley, a bowl of tomato sauce, an entire bag of flour, and a metal spatula.

At least he just barely misses the magnetic knives attached above his head.

The catastrophic _crash_ that follows draws the silent attention of everyone in the room and they all stare, frozen, as a plump man shoves his way into the kitchen through a flap door that briefly reveals a restaurant on the other side. “What’s going on here?” he booms.

Jay is struggling to get up from his position at the bottom of a mountain of bowls and food. It’s the only sound in the room until the back door is finally opened and the assaulted chef falls in, followed by a panting, squirrely looking, baby-faced young adult. The anger on the newly-arrived man’s face is discarded for a moment for an expression of bafflement, but when he sees Jay almost on his feet and absolutely covered in tomato sauce, it returns. “You!” he shouts.

The man who walked in, presumably the manager, is understandably confused. He goes forward to yell at the man who burst in through the back door, and Tim takes advantage of the distraction to run to side of the room where a metal rack on wheels is loitering. Jay is backing up as quickly as he can, but he’s about to be sandwiched between Baby Face and Angry Manager. The back door opens again and a toned Hispanic teenager with a shaved head comes in, looking between Jay and Baby Face. Tim assumes he’s back-up.

Before anyone can reach Jay, Tim braces himself on a countertop and kicks the metal rack with everything he has. It careens the few feet between it and Baby Face before colliding loudly, _thunk-_ ing Baby Face on the shoulder and throwing him back onto Back-Up.

Jay is just standing there gaping at the scene, so Tim runs over and grabs him by the arm again and starts hauling ass out of there, bursting through into the restaurant and racing for the front doors. There are shouts of alarm from the patrons as conversation halts in order to watch the scene unfold.

They only stop to catch their breath once they’re down the street, Tim physically bending over to gasp as Jay falls against a brick wall.

Tim looks up to ask who--

He doesn’t get very far with that train of thought because the sight of Jay with tomato sauce dripping off his nose, his clothes completely red with it under a thick layer of flour that he’s trying to rub away from his eyes (with no success, because there’s more of it all over his hand and arm) is the most hilarious, pathetic sight Tim has ever seen. There’s a touch of parsley clinging stubbornly onto his head that managed to not fall off during their mad dash, added there like the finish of a fancy dish.

Noodles fall out from under his shirt and splatter onto the ground when Jay plucks his shirt away from his skin with a grimace. He starts shaking each leg and arm and the sides of his jacket in the strangest dance, attempting to remove all the noodles from his body.

Before he knows it, Tim has collapsed on the ground, laughing harder than he has in weeks.

Jay is glaring at him, and that just makes it worse, the intimidating factor he’s probably trying to go for absolutely obliterated by his current predicament. “You--” Tim gasps after a minute, holding his sides with tears in his eyes, “--you look like an angry Hot Pocket!”

Jay manages to hold his composure for an entire second before joining Tim on the ground.

“Ow! My eyes! It’s in my eyes!” Jay yells in anguish after another minute, and Tim wants to help or at least pretend that he’s sympathetic, but he’s enjoying himself far too much.

“You little _rat!”_ is shouted when the pair finally start to calm down. They freeze up, but there isn’t enough time to start running again because they had been so distracted that they hadn’t noticed Baby Face and his Back-Up approach and now they’re too close to make a clean escape.

Tim gasps in surprise as he’s suddenly grabbed by the upper arm and roughly put on his feet, then shoved into the wall. He spins around, plastering his back to the brick as he’s...mostly ignored.

Back-Up has Jay by both armpits, keeping him only halfway on his feet so he’s forced to fall back against the bigger man. Still, Jay looks up defiantly at Baby Face as he spits onto Jay’s jeans.

“Hate to break it t’ya, but your spit doesn’t do much when I’m already covered in sauce,” Jay grins. Tomato sauce drips onto his teeth.

Tim cringes as Baby Face draws back a foot and catches him right in the gut. Back-Up drops Jay’s arms, letting him fall onto the ground and cough something up. It’s probably just more sauce, but Tim has a heart-stopping moment where he’s convinced it’s blood.

“What made a lil’ urchin like you think y’could _ever_ get away with the shit y’pulled?” Baby Face practically shouts, hoisting Jay up by his jacket and then tossing him back onto the pavement.

Tim figures he should probably run, but he’s rooted to his spot by an overwhelming sense of fear and a weird, probably misplaced sense of loyalty.

Baby Face slams a foot into Jay’s ribs. The kid grunts in pain but otherwise makes no other sound, and it only seems to enrage Baby Face more.

Finally, Tim is able to move, but unfortunately it’s only his mouth and the only thing he manages to say is, “Jay!”

Startled, Baby Face whirls around with a scowl. “What the helluya still doin’ ‘ere? Scram!” When Tim doesn’t move, Baby Face stalks forward, waving a finger. “Y’wanna end up like ‘im, dontcha? Well?”

“I--” Tim’s eyes dart to Jay, who’s coughing up a fit and trying to get back on his feet. Back-Up is staring him down. There’s no way Jay will be able to run for it.

Baby Face is still getting closer. Tim can smell his rancid breath as he shoves a hand forward to pin Tim’s shoulder to the wall. “Don’tcha know loyalty don’t getcha far ‘round ‘ere? Lowlife like that ain’t gonna stick up for you, why you stickin’ up for him? I’ll teach’a lesson in how to keep y’head down.”

Baby Face draws back an arm…

..So Tim takes out the can in his pocket and sprays him in the eyes.

“WhatthFUCKAHSHI-” is the screech that splits the air, and instantly Baby Face is on his knees, clawing at his face. Tim side steps and stumbles away from the disgusting man as Back-Up whirls around. Panicking, Tim sprays him too.

Jay has sprung to his feet at all the commotion and is regarding the two screaming figures on the ground with wide-eyes. “Did you just…” he eyes the can in Tim’s shaking grip as Tim falls back to slide down the opposite wall next to Jay. “Did you just _pepperspray my broker?!”_

Tim frowns at Jay, barely seeing him, too lost in a haze with the realisation of what he’d just done. “Your what?”

“My broker!” Jay exclaims incredulously. He looks a mixture of confounded, awe-stricken, and horrified. “The guy I sell my tires to!”

Tim decides then that he doesn’t even want to know why the ‘guy Jay sells tires to’ was trying to beat him to death. Instead, he looks down at the two groaning men and asks monotonously, “Want me to spray them again?”

A beat of hesitation, followed by a firm, “Yes.”

Tim complies.

* * *

“I ripped him off.”

They’re sitting on a low rooftop sandwiched between two taller buildings. Beneath them, Tim can feel the pulsing of a nightclub, the beat _thump-thumping_ through his thighs and into his chest. The sun is low in the sky but not yet fallen, though it’s well into the evening anyway due to the summer time hours.

“You ripped your broker off?” Tim asks. Their conversation is oddly quiet despite the loud music. Slow and almost emotionless. That’s fine by him. They’re both still digesting the day’s events. “I thought it’s supposed to be the other way around.”

“It is,” Jay says. “That’s why he’s pissed.”

“Oh.” Silence.

“Y’know, I wouldn’t of done it if he’d give them their fair cut,” Jay frowns. “What he’s doin’ isn’t right. The other kids’ll pick pockets and steal and bribe to get a handful of shiny things or whatever he’s callin’ for and he sends them off with barely half of what it’s worth and they can’t do nothing about it ‘cause he’s the only one in town. Only broker. So I lied ‘bout the tire. Carved in new tread, made it too thin on purpose so it wouldn’t last. Polished over the name, lied about the type. Ripped him off by a couple hundred bucks. He barely gives out hundreds to start, but he thought it was real nice.”

Tim nods.

“And then I threw a bottle bomb in his office. His favourite couch has a hole in it,” Jay finally smirks.

Tim doesn’t even mind. “And of course, I pepper-sprayed him and his buddy.”

“Of course.”

“Twice.”

Jay huffs a laugh. Another moment passes before Tim joins him with a small smile of his own.“Y’know,” he says, finally turning to Tim. “We make a pretty good team.”

“Yeah,” Tim admits shyly, looking down at the muddy toes of his sneakers dangling off the edge of the roof. “I guess we do.”

Tim ultimately decides that the day has been given enough thought and turns his attention to attempting to judge what song is playing based on the beat reverberating through his limbs. He thinks it might be a remix of Mama by David Guetta, not like that song doesn’t have enough remixes, when Jay speaks. Tim almost doesn’t hear him.

“You’re still lookin’ for Bat and brat, right?” he asks innocently. Tim turns to him in surprise.

“I--uh,” he stammers, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Cool. Lemme know if you catch ‘em.”

The comment is so absurd that Tim can’t help but hang his head and laugh at it. “I’m not trying to catch them. They’re not Pokemon.”

“They probably were in another life,” Jay shrugs. He’s trying to hide his mirth but Tim can see it in the quirk of his lips. “What are you tryin’ to do, then?”

Tim has to think about that for a moment. “Not sure,” he finally says. “I think I just want to know that I did it. That I figured out who they are. The biggest mystery in the city, solved by the little kid nobody thought anything of. Plus, they’re...kind of my role models. Robin is, anyway.”

A smirk. “You wanna find out who bird brains is so you can ask ‘im out?”

Tim elbows him. Jay winces for a split second, his ribs must be bruised, but he recovers before Tim can apologise. “No. I don’t know. Knowledge is power, I guess.”

Jay nods in understanding. “I get it.”

“You do?” Tim asks. “The people I know don’t. They’re all thinking about...other things. Social status and stuff. What people are posting on Instagram.” He pauses, not sure if Jay wants to hear more, but the boy doesn’t say anything, just looks at him blankly and Tim finds himself talking before he can think about monitoring what comes out. “Like, no one pays attention in my science class, but my teacher loves to talk and he’ll go on about anything, and last week he started talking about what Gotham was like when he was little. He’s really old. And no one was listening, but then he started talking about the abandoned Subway tunnels. So I got curious, and I looked it up, and you wouldn’t believe how _big_ it is. It connects anything and everything and no one remembers it exists. But there’s these pictures on the Newtown construction page. It’s at the very bottom of this 90-something page paper about other boring stuff, but it’s there, and I found it and printed it out and put it in the box under my bed.

“I like to learn more about anything I hear, no matter how useless people think it is, because you never know when you’re going to want it. Sometimes I’ll hear something and my first thought is, ‘That’s useful’, but I don’t know why it’s useful and I don’t know what I’d use it for,” Tim finishes. “But I keep a note of it anyway, just in case.”  
  
Jay doesn’t say anything for another moment, just kicks his legs. “It’s not like that here,” he says finally. “I mean, yeah, what’s useful is a bit different, but… If you know these streets, you control these streets.” He looks at Tim, trying to see if Tim understands, and must see that Tim doesn’t because he tries elaborating. “Like Tommy. My broker you pepper-sprayed? He knows the street kids in these parts, and he’s all buddy-buddy with the gangs. He knows where to walk and where to not. He knows who to rip off and who to stay away from, so he can get money in all the right places and no one can stop him because then he puts a stop to _them._ Gangs don’t bother him because he knows enough secrets that he can hold it over them, make sure they don’t mess with him because he has something in his head they’re afraid of.

“It’s all about the secrets. A street looks like any other street, it’s what’s goin’ on behind the walls that you gotta worry about, that you gotta know, because if you have nothing to take from someone else, someone else is gonna take from _you.”_ Jay nods to himself. “Yeah. Knowing too much is better than knowing nothin’ at all.”

It’s...comforting, hearing Jay say all of that. “There’s a lot I don’t know, though,” Tim says cautiously. “Like how the streets work. You’re the one with the street smarts. I’m just book smart.”

Jay cocks his head curiously. “Yeah? Don’t expect you to. You’re not from ‘round here.”

“Doesn’t mean I should be stupid about it.”

“What’s your point?”

“If I hang around long enough, you’ll teach me, right?” Tim asks. He knows he’s asking for a lot, but he doesn’t know whether or not it’s too much.

Jay frowns. “Teach you?”

“Yeah. Show me what it’s like here. Or at least, how to live here.”

That earns him an eyebrow raise. “You’re gonna have to actually live here for that. But…,” Jay continues before Tim can feel disheartened. “Sure. Hang around me. Shouldn’t be too bad. But I got rules.”

“Like?” Tim prods.

“Like, you gotta listen to what I say. If I say do something, you do it. Even if it seems weird. Also, I do all the talkin’. I can make you look like a rat, but anyone hear the way you talk and they’ll throw you to the wolves. You gotta learn how to not paint a target on your back.”

Tim nods slowly. “I have a rule, too.”

Jay’s eyes narrow. “Yeah?”

“No throwing either of us to the wolves,” he smiles. “You have my back, I have yours.”

Jay looks surprised, like that’s the last thing he expected to come out of Tim’s mouth. Oddly enough, that fills Tim with a sense of pride. He sticks his hand out. Jay looks at it like he can’t figure out what a hand is, and Tim feels a bit comical, but he’s nothing if not determined. He leans forward to whisper conspiratorially: “You’re supposed to shake it.”

Jay scowls and grabs his hand. Tim gives it a single, firm shake. “Then it’s official.”

“What is?”

“Our friendship.”

A sense of victory floods Tim when Jay’s mouth breaks out into a grin. “Whatever, Sherlock.”

They sit in companionable silence before a thought occurs to Tim. “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

“Isn’t Watson an idiot?”

“Only in some versions.”

“Go figure.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I posted this as a single chapter. I wanted to break it up, but any way I broke it up felt way too clunky, so congratulations, you got a three day wait for a chapter the size of two.
> 
> Tim thinks way too much for a ten year old. He has the mentality of someone over twice his age. I blame the eidetic memory.
> 
> Also, let it be known that I can't write a single fanfiction in Gotham without Jim Gordon making an appearance. That man is far too unappreciated.

“Why are you walking funny?”

“I’m not walking funny.”

Tim stares at his friend as though if he looks long and hard enough, she’ll completely forget all about the question she just asked. Stephanie is not so easily deterred. Tim needs to pick his friends better.

“You’re totally walking funny.” Her eyes narrow and she stops on the sidewalk in front of him with her arms crossed like a brick wall. It’s not fair that she’s so much taller than him. It’s not fair that _everyone_ is so much taller than him.

He winces. “Uh. I fell.” Off of a fire escape. In Crime Alley. But she doesn’t need to know that.

Her eyes are still narrowed. His heart feels like a jack-rabbit in his chest. Tim doesn’t think he’s getting out of this alive.

They’re on their way home from the grocery store, having retrieved baking supplies for Stephanie’s sudden baking urge, and Tim can feel the bruise on his shin with every horrible step he takes. He thought he was hiding it well, but apparently not. At the very least, Stephanie is the only one to have mentioned it today. “You must have fallen pretty hard.”

“Yeah.”

Oh no. She’s giving him that look from the side of her eyes, like she’s analysing every wrongdoing he has ever done in his life. He feels uncomfortable and can’t help but start fiddling with the too long sleeves of his hoodie. Still two streets away from the safety of closed doors and bedroom locks.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No, I haven’t,” Tim frowns. He totally hasn’t.

“I’m your best friend. I can tell when you’re avoiding me. You never hang out with anyone from school but me, and you haven’t been hanging out with me. Your mom never lets you stay in your room for more than a few days, and it’s been weeks!” Stephanie looks like she’s starting to get a little angry, and Tim has no idea how to console her. Has it really been weeks? He tries to count back in his mind, but gets a little lost.

She’s right, though. Stephanie truly is the only person Tim bothers hanging out with, mostly because she’s the only person to actively seek him out and make him go outside with her. But this summer he hasn’t. They share everything with each other, she knows he isn’t hanging out with anyone else…

...from school.

Tim can feel the sudden guilt gnawing at his stomach. He has been going out. Every day. And sometimes he doesn’t come home until late at night. His mother hasn’t been asking him where he’s going, but that must be because she assumes he’s with Steph. They have the habit of going to her house because she always has better food than at Tim’s house and eventually passing out. His mother trusts Steph.

His mother would most definitely not trust Jay. They’ve been meeting up for weeks. Most days are spent with Tim following Jay on his ‘rounds’, whatever they may be. Sometimes it’s just watching as he steals tires, though that stopped happening as often when Jay admitted that he still hasn’t found a new broker. Lately, Jay has been showing Tim his hideouts, and there have been a few times where they’ve visited other kids’ houses for one reason or another. Tim never knows what Jay does there, but no one has asked about Tim yet and that’s okay because Tim doesn’t want to break Jay’s ‘no talking’ rule. They’ve been chased a few times (Jay has a horrible tendency of pissing off _everyone)_ and the other day Jay taught Tim how to change a tire, but most of it has just been...hanging out.

It’s weird to think about. The last thing Tim expected he’d be doing with his summer is heading to Crime Alley every day just to _chill._ But he’s already spent hours on rooftops with his unlikely friend doing just that, talking about...whatever they can think of. Jay is surprisingly ignorant on anything having to do with social media or technology. His favourite pastime seems to be watching YouTube videos on Tim’s mother’s phone. He laughs most at the bad parodies.

Sometimes, they just listen to music. Each other’s music. They have an unspoken rule where if Tim shows Jay one song, Jay gets to show Tim one too, and they have to listen to the entire thing. Tim doesn’t particularly like any of Jay’s music -- all of it is rap, and Jay explained a few days after they started that it’s because it’s all he really hears from the kids he hangs out with. His most prized possession is his radio, and the kids in his apartment complex (this is the most he’s ever mentioned about his home) trade CD’s like they’re serious cash. Eminem, Jay-Z, Kanye, Gorillaz and Fort Minor CD’s are the most valuable, equal to two Nicki Minaj or Outkast CD’s, Jay explains like he’s advocating economic reform.

A lot of it just makes Tim uncomfortable. He doesn’t understand most of what they’re saying. The only things he tends to catch are the swear words, sticking out to him like red flags because he knows he shouldn’t be listening to any of it. Jay hardly notices the swear words. He can admit that Gorillaz sounds pretty cool, though, even if their music videos are weird. Jay gets a kick out of them, apparently he’s never seen the music videos, but Tim is just fascinatingly disturbed.

Tim’s favourite music is alternative and rock. Jay doesn’t seem to have much of an opinion on any of it, but Tim likes to think he enjoys Imagine Dragons the most. They discovered Linkin Park on accident when YouTube loaded it automatically because Jay couldn’t search a new song quick enough (he has a hard time with the touch screen, says that his fingers are too big but Tim thinks he just isn’t used to it). Tim likes their quieter songs the most -- Castle of Glass and Roads Untravelled, not because of the screaming but because they’re not as angry and, for some reason, the angry ones make Tim feel...sad (unlike him, those are Jay’s favourites).

Hanging out with Jay is...new. Different. Tim feels like he’s touching something forbidden, and he sticks with the boy for the same reason that he chases Batman and Robin with his camera in the dead of the night (even if he hasn’t been doing it nearly as much as he used to. His charts and maps remain untouched, pinned to the corkboard in his room). Being friends with Jay is like tasting adventure, and Tim can’t get enough of it.

“Doesn’t mean I’m avoiding you,” Tim mumbles, his brain finally returning back to the conversation at hand. Stephanie doesn’t look like she believes him.

“Every time I knock on your door, you’re never home.”

Tim heart stops. “You’ve been knocking on my door?”

Stephanie’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline. “Yeah? Of course I have. Every day! Where have you been?”

“Uh, is...no one opening it?”

Her eyebrows draw back almost comically fast into a frown. “No...why?”

Tim’s parents must be at work every time she knocks, then. Too close. If Tim’s parents think he’s with Steph, but she shows up asking where Tim is, Tim is so, so screwed.

“No reason. I’ve been in my room mostly. I listen to music really loudly.” Tim is a _terrible_ liar.

“Well, you should watch out for me more.”

“No shit,” Tim says absently, cursing his carelessness. They’re walking onto the steps of Steph’s house. Tim’s parents aren’t home (they rarely ever are) and wouldn’t want them to be making a mess in the kitchen, but Steph’s mother doesn't care. They just aren’t allowed to work the oven by themselves.

Steph freezes as she’s reaching for the doorknob, whipping around to stare at Tim in shock.

Tim takes a step back in alarm. “What?” he exclaims defensively.

“Did you just...swear?” she whispers.

Did he? Tim blinks slowly, thinking back to what he said.

Oh. He did.

Oh. Oh no. Swearing in his head is one thing. Outloud...

“That’s not a swear word!” he defends.

“The s-word is _totally_ a swear word,” she hisses.

“Not!”

“Is!”

“Not!”

“Tim!”

“It’s just a word!”

“Last month you said H-E-double-hockey-sticks is a swear word, even when everyone was saying it’s not, and now you’re saying the s-word _isn’t?”_

“I…,” he pauses. “We’re in fifth grade next year. One more year until middle school! Swearing is cool in middle school.” Right?

She looks like she wants to slap him. “Since when have _you_ ever cared about what’s _cool?”_

He doesn’t, but she does and he has no other excuse. “Uh…,” quick, what is the classic evasion tactic? Changing the topic won’t work. He’s used all of his excuses about himself. Next is try to make it about the other person, right? That’s what Jay told him, anyway.

How does he make it about Steph? What does Steph care about? Suddenly, it hits him. “You do!” he exclaims, before realising he shouldn’t be defensive about it. She looks taken aback. “You...you said you wanted to be friends with Bette, and she’s a popular kid and you want to be a popular kid and one of the guys in Miss. Gwen’s class has an older brother who I ran into the other day and he’s in seventh grade and he swore and so I thought, y’know, you...wouldn’t want to be friends with me anymore if I wasn’t as cool as you.” Holy mother of pearl, that was possibly the most complicated lie Tim has ever told in his life.

He looks nervous. He _knows_ he looks nervous, but...this time, it seems to work in his favour. Steph relaxes completely. She looks _sorry._ Tim isn’t expecting the hug when it comes. “I would _never_ stop being friends with you, stupid,” she steps back, smiling her wide, beaming smile that reveals her entire row of top braces. “Besides, only the emos swear. That’s what Bette told me, anyway. Come on! I want cookies.”

Tim still hasn’t wrapped his head around the fact that that actually worked by the time Steph starts taking mixing bowls out of the kitchen cabinets.

* * *

"Scrap!”

Jay is waiting for Tim the next day in the parking lot where they first met, a place that has turned into their impromptu rendezvous point. Jay looks excited for a split second before his expression morphs into a frown. “Where were you yesterday?”

That’s right, Tim had told Jay that he was going to show up. He sighs. “I ran into my best friend when I was leaving the house. She wanted me to come over and make cookies. Apparently I’ve been avoiding her to hang out with you, though I couldn’t tell her that I was hanging out with you already so I had to go to her house instead. Sorry.”

Jay’s expression goes blank. “Best friend?”

“Yeah, her name is Steph.”

The other boy nods slowly. “Why didn’t y’tell her you already had plans with me?” he asks cautiously.

Oh. “Uh,” Tim stammers hesitantly. He didn’t prepare for this. He just...assumed that Jay knew no one would approve of Tim’s choice in friends. In fact, he feels like he can see it. He can see that Jay already knows, and this is only him confirming.

Jay’s mouth draws into a thin line. “Right.”

“I--I’m sorry,” Tim says. He isn’t sure which part he’s apologising for.

“It’s cool,” Jay says, brushing it off. It doesn’t make Tim feel any less horrible. He hops off the back of the car he’s sitting on and shoots Tim a smile, some of that earlier excited expression popping back onto his face. “I wanna show you somethin’.”

No matter how much Tim presses, Jay won’t tell him anything about where they’re going. Normally he wouldn’t mind so much, but if Tim memorised his map correctly then they’re almost in Newtown and he hasn’t done his research about that borough yet. He trusts that Jay knows what he’s doing and knows where he’s going, but Tim isn’t used to plunging headfirst somewhere he hasn’t looked into first.

Jay rolls his eyes when he senses Tim’s unease. “Relax,” is all he says, which doesn’t do much to relax him. “It’s just down this street.”

He isn’t lying. They turn the corner and Tim is immediately faced with the stairs that goes down beneath the sidewalk, to the subway station beneath. Tim’s eyes widen. “I’m not going on the subway.” Not when he has absolutely no clue where their destination will be.

“We’re not gettin’ on the subway,” Jay deadpans, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Not like they’re entering the subway station or anything.

“What?” Tim asks, hoping that one word displays enough of his utter bafflement. Jay is getting a kick out of Tim’s reactions, Tim just knows it.

They head down the narrow concrete stairs into a wide room. Every wall in the room has more stairs leading in other directions, though in front of the far wall the ground drops away to reveal the tracks. There’s less people than Tim is expecting, but then again, Newtown isn’t much of a tourist district and there’s a few more hours until people start heading home from work. A few people are loitered around distracted by their phones, waiting for the next train. An electronic sign with orange text shuffles the final destinations and times of different route numbers.

“Jay, seriously,” Tim exclaims, alarmed when his voice echoes back to him. Apart from the sounds coming from the street upstairs, the only thing heard is the automated voice declaring announcements over the intercom.

“Tim, seriously,” Jay mimics right back. Tim glares at his back and stops, standing his ground as he watches Jay walk right up to the tracks.

“What are you doing?” he hisses, keeping his voice down due to not wanting to hear his words get thrown back at him by the reverberating walls.

“Just trust me, a’right?” says Jay, holding out his hand to Tim from across a distance of three feet as if he’s a parent trying to beckon his child to cross the street with him. He frowns. “Don’t you trust me?”

There it is again, that swirling feeling in the pit of Tim’s stomach. He bites his lip and nods, walking forward until he’s side by side with Jay, looking down at the two feet drop that gives way to the train tracks.

Jay jumps onto them. Tim yelps. “J--”

“You said you trust me,” Jay shoots back before he can fully voice his protest. “Hurry up, last thing you want is someone noticin’ and callin’ some two-bit cop.”

Tim personally believes cops deserve more respect, but Jay is already running down the edge of the tracks and away from the station platform, travelling deeper into tunnel. He takes a deep breath, wondering how his life has come to this and fully convinced that he is far too young to die, before following.

“Is there a train coming?” Tim asks worriedly, unnerved that the tunnel walls echo far more than the platform did.

“No,” Jay says.

“I think there is.”

Jay doesn’t even grace him with an answer. Instead, he crouches down on the side of the tracks, next to something that kind of resembles a grate or a vent, except for the fact that there shouldn’t be such a thing underground. At least, Tim doesn’t think so.

There’s the sound of a loud, approaching rumble. “Oh my god, there is.”

“There isn’t any--”

Lights appear at the end of the tunnel.

Tim is so terrified that he doesn’t even scream. _“Don’t run,”_ Jay snaps instantly, starting to tear at the grate. “There’s no way you’re outrunning it.”

“Ohmygodohmygod,” is Tim in response, turning to run.

Jay grabs his arm in a death grip and this is it, this is how Tim dies, this is what happens when you enter Crime Alley, it always ends in death, there will be nothing but a pancake for his parents to find and Steph is going to think he’s been avoiding her for the end of time--

He closes his eyes and squeals in shock as Jay grabs him by the hair, along with his grip on his arm, forcing Tim to duck his head, and yanks him forward. Tim rams his knee against something that feels like stone and--

And the train rumbles by. Tim tentatively opens his eyes to see that he’s laying on top of Jay, who looks half-relieved, half pissed. “How to Live 101: Don’t close your eyes in front of a moving train,” he grumbles, laying his head back to fall against...more train tracks.

Confused, Tim scrambles off of Jay, attempting to get his bearings. Hard to when he swears they’re lying on the train tracks a train just went over seconds ago.

Jay rolls his eyes at his befuddlement and waves his arm towards the grate that’s now lying harmlessly on the ground on the...opposite side of the train tracks than they were seconds ago. “The train is over there, dummy.”

Giving him a suspicious glance, Tim inches forward to peer through the hole where the grate once was. Sure enough, he can see the bottom of a stopped train, sitting on train tracks Tim narrowly avoided dying on. He whips around to truly take in where they are. Jay, like the infuriating bastard he can be, is laying on the filthy ground with his arms crossed behind his head and his ankles crossed, smirking with self-satisfaction up at Tim.

Tim turns to look to his right, where the platform should be. There’s isn’t one.

“In fact, a train hasn’t come over _these_ tracks in…,” Jay tilts his head with a contemplating expression. “I dunno, fifty years?”

“No way,” Tim whispers.

“Yes way,” Jay says, finally sitting up. His smirk is still plastered over his lips. “You still have your map?”

* * *

Tim doesn’t have his map. The map he has of the abandoned subway tunnels is laying at the bottom of a box shoved under his bed. He tries to pull it up on his mother’s cellphone, but there’s no service. No surprise there.

Jay doesn’t seem too bothered, just shrugs his shoulders and declares that they’re going on an adventure and that wherever they end up, at least it’ll still be in Gotham. Tim doesn’t share that certainty. He knows for a fact that there are plenty of tunnels running out of the city.

They’ve been walking for five minutes, surprisingly without much conversation, when Tim decides to (discreetly) look at Jay, who’s walking on his right. The boy doesn’t notice Tim looking at him, and Tim doesn’t want him to because there’s something different about the way Jay looks when he thinks no one is watching. He has his hands shoved deep in his pockets and is slightly kicking his heels against the gravel with every step he takes, staring at the ground and Tim might have thought he looked forlorn, except for the expression on his face.

Tim never knew there were so many different ways to smile before he met Jay, but now he feels like he’s starting to identify each one, and he likes this one the most. The way Jay’s eyes are relaxed, his cheeks puffed up just enough to reveal his dimples but not so much that they reveal his teeth. His bangs are starting to slide away from where he brushed them to the top of his head, and Tim watches as a few strands drop to hang in front of his forehead.

Tim, as quietly as he can manage, lifts his camera from where it hangs around his neck (it’s his main one, he already ran out of his space in the disposable camera) and snaps a picture. The flash startles the contented expression right off of Jay’s face.

“I--what--,” he stammers, staring at the camera in Tim’s hand with his eyebrows all scrunched up. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

“Yeah.”

Jay stops and blinks at him in disbelief before snapping out of whatever trance he had managed to put himself into. “Delete it,” he demands.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

There’s a moment of stillness before Jay lunges forward, but Tim is expecting it and breaks off into a run down the tunnel. “Delete it!” Jay yells again, racing after him.

“No!”

Unfortunately, Jay is the superior athlete and manages to tackle Tim to the ground, causing Tim to skid his side against the train tracks as he twists to shield the camera from the fall, and yanks the device right out of his hands, pulling the strap around Tim’s neck taut. “Don’t delete it!” Tim pleads as Jay slaps his hands away. “Seriously,” he says, his tone dropping its playful lilt. Jay pauses, staring at Tim and taking in his face, before looking at the camera. He gives it back and rolls off of Tim to lay on the ground next to him.

“I don’t know how to turn it on, anyway.”

Tim smiles and goes to the page displaying all the taken photos. “It’s already on,” he says, hesitating before lifting the strap from around his neck and passing the camera over to Jay. “You can look at the pictures as long as you promise not to delete any of them.”

Jay nods and holds the camera gently, like it’s something fragile. For Tim, it certainly is. He can’t help but feel the spike of anxiety that comes every time someone else picks it up, and the way his hands are still poised in the air as if to grab the camera back at any moment is evidence enough of that. Tim is too used to people throwing it around, but Jay seems to understand that it’s something more valuable than it’s price tag.

He spends a lot time staring at the picture Tim has just taken. Nervousness bubbles up in his chest. He can’t tell what Jay is thinking and, in the end, Jay doesn’t say anything, just flips to the next photo.

For the most part, he goes through them at a steady pace, not many holding his interest until he comes across one of Robin. His fingers freeze over the button he needs to press to go to the next photo.

“That one’s my favourite,” Tim says awkwardly, clearing his throat. The tunnel is too quiet.

“It’s…,” Jay trails off. Tim doesn’t think he realises that he stopped talking because his mouth is still open. Instead, Tim shows him how to zoom in. Jay immediately zooms in on Robin’s face. He twists around to look at Tim and, much to Tim’s confusion, presses a hand over Tim’s eyes.

Tim huffs. “You know I’m not Robin, right?”

Jay rolls his eyes. “You’re too short.”

Tim pouts as Jay takes away his hand. “It’s just...weird. This kid’s got a life just like us, and I betcha nobody knows that he’s actually the Boy Wonder, runnin’ around at night kickin’ people in the teeth.”

Tim nods. He knows exactly what Jay means. It’s something he thinks about every time he stares at a picture of Batman’s teenaged partner, sometimes for hours.

Jay continues, “All he’s got is some dumb mask.”

“Have you ever seen him in action?” Tim asks.

“No.”

Tim gently pries Jay’s hands off of his camera to flip through the next sixty photos, settling on a lucky shot he still can’t believe he managed to catch. In it, Robin is falling off a rooftop across the street -- backwards. He’s stretched in the air like a bridge, his hands extended in front of him facing the ground in the most perfectly executed back flip Tim has ever seen. His chin is facing the camera, and there’s a man on the ground beneath him who has yet to look up, who doesn’t even see the boy coming and won’t until Robin is right on top of him.

Jay’s eyes widen and he zooms in. “Woah,” he breathes. “He...he could be in the Olympics.”

“You think he wants to?”

It takes Jay a moment to go, “Huh?” He’s still too distracted by the photo.

“Do you think he wants to go into the Olympics?”

Jay frowns, finally looking away from the photo and placing the camera on the dip of his naval “Sure, why not? If I could do that, I’d already be in the Olympics. Y’think he is?”

Tim breathes out slowly, lost in thought. The tunnel is cold and the ground is finally starting to bite, but Jay is warm next to him in contrast, the sides of their arms just barely brushing against each other. Despite the fact that they’re laying on old planks, it’s oddly comfortable. He doesn’t want to get up. “No,” he says. Jay’s frown deepens. “I don’t think he’s in the Olympics.”

“Why not?”

“Because just think about it,” he begins, turning his head to face Jay. The other boy is looking at him like he holds all the answers in the world, all it takes to discover them is for Tim to open his mouth and he momentarily loses his train of thought, not used to such respect and attention. No one has bothered listening to him so intently before. He collects himself and continues before the pause becomes noticeable. “Robin can do all these cool tricks, and then he does something to get his face without his mask put all over TV, all over the world, while doing the same tricks. Eventually, better pictures of Robin are going to be put on the internet. I already have them. I could post them somewhere whenever I want to. All he has is that mask. He wouldn’t risk it. He can’t.”

“What’s so bad ‘bout people findin’ out who he is?”

“Well, first of all, he helped lock up everyone currently in Arkham Asylum. What if there’s another break out? They’re all going to know where he lives. Also, yeah, he’s a good guy, technically, but you have to remember that being a vigilante is actually illegal.”

Jay seems surprised. “It is? But…he _helps_ the police.”

“Still not allowed. And if the cops or the bad guys can’t get him, if he runs away or something, what about his family? His friends? Classmates?” Tim turns back to stare at the ceiling. They lay in silence.

“You think way too much for a nine year old.”

“I'm ten. Also, most of these ideas I got from chat forums. People either think Batman and Robin are super awesome, or they think they should be locked behind bars. Lots of love, lots of hate. Hard not to keep note of all of it.” Jay snorts but doesn’t reply. “You know, sometimes, I wonder…”

“Hmm?” prods Jay when he trails off.

“Does he regret it? He gets to help people...and has to lie to everyone about it. I hate lying. It’s...scary. Always wondering if people are going to figure out that I’m not telling them the truth.”

Jay shrugs. “I think the double life thing is pretty cool. Like a living James Bond.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “I don’t think James Bond has a double life. I think you just got that because his name is double-oh-seven.”

When a few more minutes pass in companionable silence, Jay picks the camera back up again. Tim rolls his head to the side to watch, unintentionally pressing his cheek to Jay’s shoulder, but it doesn’t seem as though Jay minds so he doesn’t move it. He isn’t watching Jay scroll through the pictures anymore. His focus is caught by the scuffed zipper on Jay’s torn leather jacket, his mind occupied elsewhere.

“Huh,” Jay huffs in an interested tone a while later. Tim’s eyes sluggishly slide to the picture he’s paused on. “Strange.”

It’s a picture Tim took during his half-hearted attempt at scouting out Burnley. He was only there for a night, but he managed to take pictures of a few dealings out of sheer boredom and the hope of testing out the new settings he’s placed on his camera that might manage to take photos quicker with lower ISO settings without flash (flash tends to catch eyes, and that’s exactly what Tim _doesn’t_ want). This one, taken of two bald men talking in whispers outside of the personal boat docks at the edge of the river, looked intensely suspicious, especially since it didn’t seem as though anything was being traded over except photos and paperwork. Tim had tried to get a better shot of them, especially the photos, but the surface had been laminated and the streetlamps hadn’t been working in Tim’s favour.

“What’s strange?” Tim asks. Well, everything about it was strange, but Tim perks up because it’s not like anything in his camera roll _isn’t._

“No,” Jay says, frowning. “Not strange, it’s _Strange._ That’s his name.” He runs his thumb over the man on the left, the only one of the two with facial hair framing his jaw.

“Who names themselves Strange?” Tim snorts.

“Think it’s his real name,” shrugs Jay. “Anyway, he was goin’ around my part couple weeks ago with some Bible thumper, sayin’ he can cure our sick and give ‘meaning to our lives’.” Tim had quickly caught on that Jay tends to refer to the few blocks he frequents in the Narrows, the designated name given to the worst blocks of Gotham which combine Crime Alley and the Bowery, as ‘his’.

“Creepy,” Tim says, whispers really because Jay looks withdrawn and lost in thought and Tim fears speaking too loudly may break that solemn mood like china.

The boy nods slowly. “Yeah, said...said he could help my mom.”

Tim tries hard not to stare, tries hard to give Jay his thinking room but this is the first time he’s mentioned his mother and Tim hasn’t gotten into all the trouble has the last few months due to reigning in his curiousity.

Jay clears his throat loudly. “Didn’t ask for money or nothin’, but he gave off this weird vibe and I didn’t like it. Take it from me, don’t be hanging around these types. Weirdos are all over the place, better just to ignore them and keep walking.”

Tim doesn’t say anything to that, not because he has nothing to say but because he finds that he can’t agree. Ignoring what’s wrong is what’s wrong with this city, he contemplates as they both rise to their feet and the camera is returned to its rightful place around Tim’s neck. When they walk this time, their arms are brushing together, the most prolonged physical contact they’ve had so far though they’ve known each other for weeks now. It’s a comforting constant, a gentle reminder that he isn’t alone.

Everything Tim hears, he remembers. He never thought it unusual until his math teacher remarked on his ability to visual with such clarity and no physical help the way fractions compare to each other by decimals, and he explained that he had once seen a chart of it in passing in the school supplies section of Staples. But not all the time does he only remember numbers and figures and the way things compare and contrast.

As Tim has discovered, as long as he remains quiet, adults will speak as if no one is there. They ignorantly assume that everyone has the tendency to do as Jay suggested -- ignore what they don’t understand. But if Tim can’t understand what he hears during the moment he hears it, he understands it later when he looks into it more, he understands it when he hears more and begins to connect the pieces. So many people have the tendency to speak without thinking, expecting their words to come out and vanish in thin air, to never hold tangible significance, but every complaint is an example of a system that hasn’t worked, every comment is an opinion that has its roots in truth (and Tim certainly now knows more about politics than he ever originally cared to).

Crime Alley has been dubbed Crime Alley because of the way the police willfully ignore its crime. The poor starve because the government willfully ignores their need for food. Diseases go undiagnosed because people ignore the symptoms. Ignorance is bliss.

Tim is not ignorant.

Perhaps Batman and Robin are so entrancing because they, too, took note of what others won’t and decided to do something about it. They, too, noticed what won’t work and went around the reasons it failed to make it a success. They took these complaints and comments and truths into their own hands to try and _fix_ them, give them no reason to have existed in the first place.

They don’t turn a blind eye in favour of bliss.

The two boys walk for almost an hour before finding another grate. They emerge on one side of an already stopped train and quickly run around the back of it to climb onto the platform before they’re noticed. When they emerge onto the street, it’s significantly busier and completely unrecognisable.

“What--where are we?” Tim asks, bewildered. Jay’s grin is wide.

“Wow. You _seriously_ need to bring that map tomorrow. I’m gonna use those tracks for everywhere I need to go from now on,” he exclaims in delight.

Tim arches his eyebrows, knowing that he only has to wait if he wants Jay to give him answers, even if they tend to be roundabout. Jay doesn’t disappoint. He points off into the near distance, towards a structure whose looming height seems to engulf the buildings around it. “Knights Stadium,” he says.

The Gotham Knights, this cities football pride and joy, whose stadium is perhaps the most loved on and cared for on the east coast beside Metropolis’ very own, and which resides in… “Otisburg?” Tim exclaims. “We’re in Otisburg?”

Otisburg is parallel with the Narrows, clean across both Burnley and Newtown as well as the gardens in between. Tim has never travelled here alone before, and judging from the look on Jay’s face, neither has he. It’s far different from what Jay must be used to, home to many of the scientific research and development centers in Gotham, including S.T.A.R. Labs, Stagg Industries, Ace Chemicals, and so-on.

The last time Tim was here was a few months ago for a tour of S.T.A.R. Labs as an end-of-the-year class field trip. He still remembers the way the tour guide had begun an in-depth discussion with another working scientist about current experimental studies, yet to be released to the public, while Tim’s classmates were occupied with viewing the mini-observatory. He has sticky notes reminding him to do more research on them when given the chance, preferably before they’re released to the public (as Tim has found, press opinions tend to shadow and overwhelm any results not affected by official, censored speeches, and if possible it’s good to look into the leaks of developments before they’re formally introduced. Many of it he doesn’t understand and simply prints out to examine when relevant, or when he finds it comes up later, or to study when he’s older as things that may seem insignificant tend to become the biggest concerns years in the future. After all, isn’t that how all the super-villains start out?).

Jay suddenly sighs as Tim is preoccupied with examining the new skyline. He can see the coast of the Gotham River from here. Before Tim can ask what’s wrong, Jay crosses his arms and leans back against the wall of a bakery shop with a decidedly unimpressed look on his face. “Really isn’t Gotham until you run into a dead body, is it?"

Tim frowns and swivels around to face where Jay is gesturing with his chin. Across the street is a closed gate revealing the back of a building with its dumpsters and small parking lot, as well as a small alley connecting to another street further down, where Tim can see a man in uniform barricading a small area with police tape.

“How do you know it’s a murder scene?” Tim asks skeptically.

“Ten bucks says it is,” says Jay.

“You don’t have ten bucks.”

“Exactly.”

It’s a murder scene. Tim isn’t all that surprised, either. The body is just being zipped up when the boys arrive beside the tape and the angle prevents them from seeing any details, but Tim takes a load of pictures of the scene anyway (as well as any evidence bags he sees out in the open). He doesn’t think before he’s slipping beneath the police tape and struggling to get a closer look.

“Woah!” a man exclaims, instantly shouldering himself into Tim’s way and steering the boy back behind the tape. Jay gives Tim a look like he thinks he’s crazy, but is eventually paying more attention to the cop. Much to Tim’s shock (and chagrin), Jay gives the badge a smile.

“How y’doin’, Jimmy?”

Tim turns around once he gets gently pushed back to the edge of the crowd to see a significantly stressed-out looking man in a mustache and spectacles trying to give the two boys a smile with a far-off feel to his eyes. “That’s Lieutenant Gordon for you, Jay,” Lieutenant ‘Jimmy’ Gordon says with absolutely no bite.

“Ouch, that hurts,” Jay says with a pout.

Tim shoots him a suspicious look, because why is the boy who routinely curses the police force playing friendly with a Lieutenant? Gordon’s smile turns a little more genuine at Jay’s teasing. “I didn’t expect to see you around here, kiddo,” he questions softly.

“Me neither,” admits Jay readily. He drapes a bold arm around Tim’s shoulders, squishing him uncomfortably close. “Just seein’ the sights with my good friend Timmy here.”

Tim scowls. He hates being called Timmy.

Gordon doesn’t look like a man who’s easily fooled. “Seeing the sights, eh? You normally go sightseeing at crime scenes?”

“Don'tcha know this one’s a true detective if there ever was any?” Jay counters, shaking Tim lightly. Tim is starting to feel supremely awkward. “Give him ten minutes and he’ll have it all figured out. Steal your job right from under your nose.”

“I’m sure,” Gordon concedes. “You staying out of trouble?”

“Me? Trouble? Why, I ever,” gasps Jay.

That draws a chuckle out of Gordon. “What’s it going to take to keep you boys away from here?”

Tim, like the polite and well-mannered child he is, really is about to say, “Nothing, sorry sir,” and quickly be on his way. Jay seems to have other plans.

“Five bucks.”

Tim stares at Jay incredulously, and Gordon is _smiling._ “Ice cream again? Tell you what -- Leonard’s on the corner has the best berry swirls around. Promise.” And of course, because Tim is with _Jay_ and suddenly anything is possible, the cop reaches into his slacks, pulls out a wallet, and hands a neat five dollar bill to the cop-cursing tire thief.

Before they split ways, Gordon reaches forward and claps a hearty hand on Jay’s shoulder. He draws him close and looks him in the eyes seriously. “I mean it, Jay.” His eyes are dark. “I’m seeing more murderers these days than pickpockets turning up at the station. Stay out of trouble, stay _safe._ I’ve seen a lot, but one thing I hope never to see is your body on the other side of this tape.”

Jay’s smile drops. “I know,” he says softly. Then, as quickly as it had gone, one side of his mouth twitches. “‘Sides, I wasn’t kiddin’ about this scrap,” he gestures to Tim. “He’s a real goody-two-shoes.”

A few stress lines around Gordon’s eyes seem to visibly soften as he looks over at Tim. “Keep him out of trouble,” he says with the smallest quirk of his lips.

“Yes, sir,” Tim readily agrees. That makes the lieutenant chuckle, and he ruffles Tim’s hair before finally turning away and leaving the boys to it. Tim wants to ask what in the world just happened, but instead he finds himself asking: “What are you planning on doing with the money?” as they’re walking away because this is Jay and Jay always has some nefarious plan.

Instead of a nefarious plan, Jay arches an eyebrow and says, “Buy ice cream?” like he can’t imagine what else he might use five dollars for.

Ten minutes later, they’re sitting on the curb outside of Leonard’s Ice Cream Parlor with identical waffle cones in their hands, Jay’s a Berry Blast as suggested by Gordon and Tim’s a Strawberry Surprise. Tim still can’t understand what’s with ice cream flavours and alliteration, but it is the best tasting strawberry he’s ever had so he finds that he doesn’t have it in him to voice his concerns.

“So...the badge,” Tim begins cautiously. Jay hums to show that he’s listening, preoccupied with chasing a drip of purple ice cream down his waffle cone. “I thought you hated them?”

Jay takes another lick of his ice cream before turning to look at the other boy and shrugging. Tim thinks Jay shrugs most when he’s trying his best to seem indifferent, especially when he’s not. “Well, we happened to run into the one badge I don’t on this entire planet, so.”

“What’s so special about him?” Tim asks, not expecting an answer.

Jay responds so quickly that Tim’s taken aback. “Everything,” he says, possibly more passionately than he means to. At Tim’s open, but questioning, gaze, he sighs and looks at the street. “Few years ago...he came ‘round asking about the Wayne murders.”

“Martha and Thomas Wayne?” Tim asks for confirmation. He knows what Jay is referring to. Anyone who grew up in Gotham would. It dominated the papers for months when it happened -- the two most prominent wealthy figures in Gotham, possibly the only ones actively attempting to support those below the poverty line, murdered in Crime Alley, leaving behind their newly orphaned twelve year old son. It’s mentioned practically every time Bruce Wayne makes the papers, which is a whole lot. “But those happened a long time ago.”

“Yeah, we thought it was weird at first, but apparently the boys in blue were still lookin’. Found out he was new from Chicago. Things must be different up there. But he wanted to close the case, no matter how cold. Worked my street for months, wouldn’t give in ‘til he got too swamped with other crimes. Tends to happen in Gotham, y’know how it is. But there is one thing he said… That he wasn’t givin’ in ‘cause some other guy promised Bruce Wayne that they’d catch the guy who did it and since the other cop couldn’t do it, Jimmy said he would. Jim wasn’t even the one to make that promise. But he kept sayin’ it wasn’t right, to leave some kid without answers even after almost twenty years,” says Jay, shuffling uncomfortably.

“Thing is, I wouldn’t of believed him, but he kept comin’ ‘round. Not just for that case. He...every time I heard gunshots, he was right there, knockin’ on doors and asking questions. Askin’ if everyone was okay. Kept turning up on my beat, askin’ me ‘bout school and how was I doing and am I okay and be safe and… I mean, gunshots happen a lot over there. Nothin’ special. Kids die, gangs fight, it _happens._ But…

“He wouldn’t leave us hanging. Again with that ‘isn’t right’ bull, that someone oughta take care of the situation, that if nobody gonna show up to give some poor mother closure then he’s gonna be the one to do it. He hasn’t been workin’ the streets since he got promoted, not his territory, but ask anybody about Jim Gordon and they’ll tell you that he’s the one, the _single_ god-honest cop in this whole godforsaken city.

“Oh, we’d never tell him nothing. Betcha he couldn’t close half the cases he put on himself, but no one expected him to. We’d never tell him nothing because you can’t get anyone on that block to open their mouths about something that might put them in a spotlight, but that don’t mean we didn’t trust him. We trusted him. But sometimes, trust just isn’t enough.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, Starfire was going to be mentioned for a sentence. And I have no idea where Raven came from. Honest. She just...naturally took up half of the chapter?
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be much longer and filled with a lot more, but then it felt like such a great ending point. Also, I wanted to post tonight and...the sun is already sort of rising? So. I'm definitely going to need to come back and edit this later.
> 
> I'm disappointed I wasn't able to post a few hours ago. This chapter was originally supposed to include Jay's birthday (which I typed yesterday anyway), and Jay's birthday was actually a few hours ago (August 16). Instead, I decided to give him a hard time. Naturally.
> 
> Now, without further ado, enjoy chapter 4!
> 
> (Don't kill me)

“You’re in seventh grade, right?”

Jay gives Tim a slow sideways glance, eyebrows raised, the expression he normally displays when he’s silently telling Tim to get on with it.

“I mean, since you’re 12 and all.”

“I’m not 12,” Jay says in a poor attempt to deflect the question as they walk away from their normal rendezvous point. Neither has any idea where they’re headed yet. “Will be in two weeks, though.”

“When’s your birthday?"

“August 16.”

Tim wants to ask what he’s going to do for his birthday, but even without asking, the way Jay seems to have absolutely no excitement, the way his shoulders are just as droopy as they were yesterday tells more than Jay can answer with words.

“I’d tell you happy birthday, but that’s bad luck in Russia,” Tim says instead.

That earns him a small smile.

In a way to lead to the same question without seeming repetitive, Tim bites his lip and admits hesitantly: “I don’t want to go to middle school.”

“Why not?” Jay asks with what Tim thinks is genuine surprise.

“It...it seems scary? I don’t know, I don’t want...I don’t like…”

A pause, then Jay finishes Tim’s sentence with a small, “Change?”

Tim’s back slouches. He figures that’s answer enough. “What’s it like?”

Jay looks like he wants to deflect again. Tim doesn’t want to let him. It only makes him more eager to know what Jay is trying not to say. “I don’t think your school is gonna be anything like mine,” the other boy finally admits.

“Oh.” Tim doesn’t know how to respond. He doesn’t understand how Jay’s school could possibly be so different. It’s school, a neutral zone, it’s not like the streets follow Jay into the classroom -- right?

He heard a saying once, “You can take the kid out of the fight, but you can’t take the fight out of the kid.” He wonders how true it really is.

They walk in silence for a few more moments before Jay stops, and Tim looks at him just in time to see Jay’s eyes light up in excitement. “Oh man, is this my lucky day,” he exclaims.

He’s looking at a car.

Of course.

Tim watches as he runs up to the vehicle. He’s unimpressed. “A car?”

“A V6,” Jay explains. It doesn’t actually explain anything. “A police issued Ford V6.”

Yeah, Tim could see it’s a police car from a mile away. It’s why he hasn’t moved any closer. He’ll follow Jay onto the tracks of a moving train, but it’ll take a bit more convincing to be too close to the guy more than likely stealing from a cop car. “Are you seriously planning on stealing the tires off of _this?”_

“No,” Jay says with his forehead all scrunched up. “Too much time, not worth it. Gonna steal somethin’ else.”

Because why not?

Tim looks over his shoulder in paranoia as Jay instantly sets to work, shimmying himself beneath the mid of the Ford. They have no idea how long this car has been here or when the officer it belongs to will be back. “Jay!” he hisses. “Are you crazy? Just find a different car!”

“No, this is a V6! Top of the line Ford, too, I’m tellin’ you. I haven’t seen one here before! No one’s usually this stupid!”

“ _You’re_ not usually this stupid!”

“Just keep a look out. I’m taking the cats.”

He’s taking _cats?_ “You mean you’re taking the car?”

“What? No, that makes no sense. I’m taking the cats.”

“ _That_ makes no sense! What are cats? You know, other than cute, four-pawed furry friends,” Tim glares. Jay shimmies all the way out from under the car simply to show Tim the most deadpan look in his arsenal.

“Cat. Catalytic converter. Helps pollution. Always in cars. Makes bad gases go bye-bye.”

Jay ignores Tim’s scowl as he scrambles to his feet and bolts down the street. The cop car is an adjacent alley, so the moment Jay turns the corner he’s completely out of sight. “Hey!” Tim yells.

“Stay there!”

If Tim gets arrested, he’s killing Jay. Tim’s too small for jail. He still can’t reach the low kitchen cupboards. His mug shot is going to be a lone portrait of his cowlick.

Eventually, Tim decides to hide behind one of the dumpsters in case a cop decides to turn the corner. He’s still there when Jay runs in wielding a wrench, something that looks like a bottle with a straw, and a betrayed expression.

Tim takes that opportunity to pop out and scream, causing Jay to yell and jump onto the hood of the car. “You lil'--” Jay curses, holding out his wrench threateningly. Tim stands defiantly in front of him with his arms crossed.

“I’m not your watchdog. Or partner-in-crime,” he says matter-of-factly. Jay grumbles but says nothing in response, climbing down from the hood and sliding back under the car. After a few moments, Tim concedes to his curiousity and leans against the side of the car, although not without keeping a hawks eye on the entrance of the alleyway. “So...why do you want something that helps pollution?”

“Because, my dear Timmy, cats are worth far more than tires.”

Tim frowns. Something that helps the environment is worth stealing? “Okay? Why?”

“It has platinum in it, which…,” Jay trails off. He knows Tim is going to finish the sentence. Tim may not know anything about cars, but Jay is right in assuming that he knows plenty about this.

“...which is worth more than gold.” There was a point in time where Tim tried to investigate the blood diamond smuggling trade due to an offhanded comment from a human rights activist in the financial district. He didn’t learn much about it apart from horrifying documentaries, but he did end up memorising the relative worth of the top ten metals around the world. It’s shocking how quickly wiki pages can suck a person in.

“Bingo!”

“If all cars have cats, why not steal all of them?” asks Tim, realising a missing piece in the puzzle that is the explanation to any of Jay’s actions.

There’s the sound of grunting, then, “Most of the cars ‘round here are old. Like, really old. As in, before most of the cars in America had cats that were California State Issued -- which, before you ask, is a lot better than regular cats and worth waaay more. Cats are already super hard to sell. You try to sell a cat, most places assume it’s stolen and won’t give y’nothin’ for your troubles. Hard, _but!_ Not impossible. Not for a place like the Narrows, anyway. And like I was sayin’, this is a V6. V6 means y’got two banks, which means y’got two cats. Helps for efficiency and all, but for me it means I get two in one. Hold this.”

Jay sticks his hand out from under the car with a silvery rectangular box in his hands, which Tim takes gingerly. “That’s one of the cats.”

Tim examines the seemingly unassuming box. Jay pops out not long after with another, identical one, but by then Tim is staring inside of the police car, at the radio. Jay starts talking but stops abruptly when he realises that Tim isn’t paying any attention, following the younger boy’s gaze.

Surprisingly, he connects the pieces pretty fast. Although that might also because Tim had once expressed his concerns for discovering Batman and Robin’s activities without a way to monitor the cause and effect -- effect being the vigilantes, cause being the crime. Jay huffs when he notices the dilemma written all over Tim’s face. “Just take it,” he says, like it’s so simple.

“I can’t,” Tim says.

“Sure y'can,” shrugs Jay, reaching into the front of the patrol car and promptly taking out the radio.

Tim stares at him in horror. “No, you don’t understand, I _can’t._ It belongs to a cop!”

Jay snorts. “A cop is just a guy in a fancy hat.”

“I don’t steal. It’s not right.”

“What’s not right is you laying a good chance to waste.”

“I’m not going to do it, Jay.”

Jay quirks an eyebrow. “Okay,” he says, then slams the car door shut and begins walking out of the alley, the radio nestled comfortably in his arms.

“Wh--Jay!” Tim protests as he starts speed-walking, paranoid until they’re a good few streets down from the car.

“Wait for it,” says Jay, and Tim is silent if only for the sake of wanting to find out what he’s waiting for. They reach the alley where they first met and Jay sets his collection of stolen items on top of one of the dumpsters. He gestures grandly to the radio and leans against a wall ever-so-casually. “Twenty bucks.”

Tim stares blankly. “Excuse me?”

“Y’heard me,” Jay says with his trademark trouble-making smirk. “Twenty bucks for the radio.”

“I’m not buying a stolen radio.”

“What makes you say it’s stolen? Doesn’t look stolen, does it?” pouts Jay in mock offense.

“Seriously,” glares Tim.

“I’m being serious,” Jay says with a solemn nod. “This is a perfectly legal transaction. I’m the supplier, supplying this nice-looking police radio, and you’re the consumer, buying this nice-looking police radio.”

Immediately, a staring contest is in order. However, it’s hard for Tim to keep up his angry expression when faced with a very constant image of the Jay-who-got-the-cream, and shoves a hand into his pocket to aggressively yank out a twenty dollar bill. “Atta boy,” Jay grins, taking the bill haughtily. “Y’know, you should never carry a twenty around. Most should be a five. Keep it to ones or you’re gonna get mugged the second somebody sees you pass anything over.”

Tim, disgruntled, only says, “Are you going to mug me?”

“What’s the point? You just gave me all your money and all I had to do was ask."

That’s-- that’s true, actually. Tim’s eyes widen. “How did--”

“You didn’t look when you pulled it outta your pocket. You knew all you had was twenty,” smirks Jay. “See what I mean?”

Tim hates it when he’s right.

* * *

A few days later, Jay isn’t at their normal rendezvous point. However, there’s one other place he habitually frequents, and that’s the alley showcasing the back of the bread shop down the street (Tim can’t decide if it’s to flirt with one of the employees, a redhead Tim’s only met once named Kori, or if it’s for the free bread they throw out every night -- he figures probably both. Tim personally thinks girls are _gross,_ but Jay really likes them. He says Tim will like them when he’s almost-12, too. Tim isn’t sure he wants to be almost-12 anymore). He decides to head down there.

Jay isn’t there when Tim arrives so he spends a few minutes standing around deliberating his next course of action, which is how Kori finds him when she peeks her head out from the back door, a bag of probably mostly stale bread swinging at her hip.

She really is a very pretty girl, but in an objective way for Tim. A lingering thought that’s more like ‘There are so many girls who would kill to have those looks’ or ‘She kind of reminds me of those perfume models in the magazines’. Jay preaches about her face (and other parts Tim can’t quite find the appeal of) to the gospel, though. Personally, Tim thinks it has something to do with her being a few years older than Jay. Older girls tend to look prettier for some reason.

See, Kori Anders has this tan skin that’s so golden it’s probably trying to be orange, or resemble the sun. She shines with it, like it’s always wet although it’s dry and soft to the touch. No freckles, pimples, or acne, something that Tim knows happens to the older kids (and something he can see happening with Jason, who bemoans life every time he finds a new imperfection on his ‘beautiful face’). She doesn’t seem to do anything for it, either. He has never seen her wear makeup, and her eyebrows are perfectly symmetrical without being shaped, framing vivid green eyes. Her fire red hair is smooth like silk and fans out across her back like a blanket whenever she bends down, pooling on the floor when she sits.

What Tim likes most about her, however, is her kindness. It doesn’t feel fake or overeager. She has a soft way of speaking, almost as if she’s shy like Tim, but when she has something she’s passionate about she’s bolder than Jay and it seems no one is willing to stand in her way. She’s gentle without being submissive, and seems to genuinely like Tim.

(“You are not ruining his innocence on my watch!” she had declared the first time she had met him. She’s the only person Jay has told Tim that he can actually speak to, probably because she also has an accent unlike Jay’s, but certainly unlike anything Tim’s ever heard. “What is your favourite pie?” she had asked seconds later. It was the first time Tim has been forced to eat an entire cheesecake in an hour so his parents wouldn’t find any suspicious leftovers in the kitchen.)

“Tim?” she calls now, turning around to face him. Her hair isn’t being obedient and looks kind of annoying, draping itself over her shoulders, down her arms, down her back. It seems that it’s gotten caught in her fingers where she’s gripping the bag, and she only narrowly avoids having it jammed in the door when it swings shut. Tim doesn’t know how she deals with it, no matter how well she seems to take care of it, but as invasive as it is Kori sure knows how to expertly maneuver it so it must not be too much of a problem. She gives him a large, beaming smile. “Have you come for the bread?”

The way she talks sounds as if she’s read all the appropriate dialogue straight out of a Unknown Language to English translator. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever heard her use any slang, and seems to be confused when any of it comes up. That’s fine. Jay uses enough slang for the both of them. The other boy certainly polishes up his language when he speaks to her, doesn’t slur his words as much and doesn’t use any terms that can’t be learned from anything other than the streets. Tim feels like he might be right in assuming that English isn’t Kori’s first language. “No, actually. I’m looking for Jay. Have you seen him?”

Kori brightens at the chance to help Tim, like helping people is the most satisfactory thing she can imagine doing with her day. Certainly a people-pleaser. Tim thinks it’s refreshing. The hand that isn’t holding the bread sticks her pointer finger in the air with success. “Yes. He spoke with me an hour or so ago. I recall him saying that he was going to go find _you_.”

“That’s weird. He wasn’t where we were going to meet up.”

A worried expression crosses over her face. “Oh no. Do you think he is alright?”

Tim bites his lip. He doesn’t know, but he doesn’t want to worry Kori. She takes the safety of her friends very personally. “I’m sure.” The girl nods, wary but slightly cheered up by the knowledge that her friend doesn't seem to be in immediate danger, and begins moving out of the alley. She turns to Tim to say something, but Tim beats her to it. “Where are you going?”

Kori smiles at him and holds up her bag. “When there is bread left over from the day before, I give it to others who might need it.”

“Alone?”

Not even Tim wants to be alone here. A grown man wouldn’t. He finds it hard to believe that a model-worthy 16 year old girl would. She nods, like there isn’t any problem with the idea.

“I...you do this a lot?”

“Of course. There are many people who do not have food, and it is wasteful to throw away ours when it has become too old to sell.”

Tim fights hard not to gape. “You’re not scared?”

“Why should I be?” she asks.

And she calls  _him_ innocent?

“Uh...could I tag along?” For both of their sakes. Tim doesn’t like the idea of Kori wandering Crime Alley alone as much as he doesn’t like the idea of wandering alone himself.

“Certainly!”

She doesn’t enter the road as Tim expects her to. Instead, she enters another back street that runs behind the alleys and shops. They’re only walking for a few minutes, the silence filled with Kori’s idle chatter and Tim attempting to not get smacked in the shoulder or face by her waving hand as she gesticulates wildly, when she steps onto the back porch of a nondescript building with faded black walls and gives a soft knock. It seems normal enough, but Tim is quick to notice that she knocks again in the exact same pattern when the door doesn’t immediately open.

The worn door is opened a crack, a chain lock yanking itself taut as someone peers out. “Hello,” Kori greets amicably. She holds up her bag. “I have heard there is someone not feeling well, and I wish to offer gifts for their well-being.”

The person’s eyes flick to Tim after nodding at Kori. Kori promptly grabs Tim’s hand and holds it, likely to show that he means no harm, and then the door is closing only to open again without the chain. The person who opened the door, whom Tim didn’t see much of to begin with, is gone when he walks through the doorway.

He instantly doesn’t like the feel of the place. For one, all of the walls are painted black, which makes an already very narrow building seem even more enclosing. Kori doesn’t seem the least bit bothered. There is nowhere to move on the ground level, the door leading straight to a staircase with only a small bit of hard floor making up the first floor and a door on their right that Tim assumes is some kind of laundry room or closet. They walk up slowly, every step creaking obnoxiously.

Everything about the building gives Tim the creeps and he’s about to politely tell Kori that he’ll wait outside when they finally emerge upstairs into what seems to be a living room, although it’s possibly the size of Tim’s bedroom. It isn’t as plain as Tim expected. There are no photos on the walls, but the coffee table is covered in notebooks and leather bound journals and candles, and every piece of hard floor is occupied by a different rug, oddly mismatched in aesthetic but all very busy so the room feels more crowded and filled than it really is. Tim recognises an Indian patterned rug overlapping with a Persian one almost immediately, which in turn is half covering the Chinese characters of another. There’s a book open on the floor that’s written in Arabic.

There’s another hallway only three feet long, but there’s a bookshelf in it that makes it so Kori and Tim can only walk down the hallway sideways. Thankfully there isn’t much of a distance to go until Kori is opening the door of a bedroom.

“Rae?” she calls softly. “Are you awake?”

“Hard not to with the way you stomp up those steps,” comes the _very_ displeased grumble.

Tim doesn’t see anything until Kori moves further into the room to sit on the edge of a -- surprise, surprise -- black and white patterned bed. There’s a huge dream catcher hanging on the wall above the bed frame, as well as a hand mirror on the mirrorless clothes drawer across from it, but apart from those the only things in the room are _books._

More books than Tim has ever seen in his life, and Kori manages to step around them without so much as a second glance, like she’s memorised it at all as an organised chaos. Some of them are held open with notebooks and pens and pencils, most are shut with pieces of paper nudged between the pages and sticky notes written in different languages on their covers. Very few of them have titles. Tim suspects the laminated cover sleeves have been removed. Tim relates only somewhat -- they do tend to get annoying after a while, but Tim also isn’t much for books. He prefers indulging in the digital age.

“Gar told me you have not been feeling well, friend,” Kori greets.

“I don’t know why you keep listening to him. He’s a dirty liar,” is the muffled response. There’s a girl laying on the bed with her face down, shoulder length purple-dyed hair with all of the black roots showing splayed around her head like a halo.

Kori seems amused. “I listen to him because he very rarely lies when it comes to you.”

“Ugh. He has such a big mouth. I’m not sick. I don’t _get_ sick.”

“Except sometimes. Such as now.”

“Such as never. Go away.”

A bright laugh flows from Kori’s mouth. “Well, I have brought food anyway.” When the girl doesn’t make to reply, Kori continues: “Abgoosht and lavash. I do wish you would eat it. It is terribly difficult to make foods I am not familiar with.”

The girl peeks an eye out, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “Since when have you known how to make Middle Eastern foods?”

“Since this morning. Also, I have brought a friend! His name is Tim,” Kori turns her beaming face back to Tim. “Tim, meet my best friend, Rachel.”

“Hi,” Tim greets quietly.

Rachel groans as she shifts to sit up. She looks like the polar opposite of Kori. In fact, Kori looks like a flower in a deserted wasteland sitting in Rachel’s dark and awfully cramped room, while Rachel looks like she’s about to blend into the walls and disappear despite her gleaming pale complexion. Rachel casts a very cursory, blank glance up at Tim. “Pleasure,” she grumbles, taking the tupperware of food that Kori hands out. When Kori continues to sit there, Rachel raises a single eyebrow. “What?” She flicks her wrist. “Get out. This room is too small for three people. It’s barely big enough for one.”

  
“I told you that you may move in with--”

“Nope. Nope all the way to hell. Now leave before I call the cops or something.”

Kori laughs like it’s a joke (Tim doesn’t think it is, Rachel looks awfully serious) but gets up to leave anyway. She hovers for a moment as Rachel is preoccupied with opening the lid and manages to dart forward and wrap her arms around the other girl in her distraction.

Surprisingly, Rachel doesn’t protest, just meets Tim’s eyes from over Kori’s shoulder and rolls her eyes. She hums when Kori offers a chipper goodbye and hustles Tim from the room.

“Well, that went... well,” comments Tim, bemused.

Kori claps her hands in delight. “Yes, it did! She always loves when I make her foods from different places.”

Tim doesn’t exactly know what to say to that, so he says nothing and merely follows Kori back down the stairs. Instead of heading out the back door, however, she opens the other door. Tim had assumed it was a laundry room but it’s far from that. Unexpectedly, when they emerge on the other side, they find a spacious room with three ratty black leather couches, an old TV, and a billiards table nestled in the corner.

There are four other people in the room, possibly the most gothic looking teenagers Tim has ever seen. They look up briefly when the door opens but lazily go back to what they were doing before once Kori has offered her greetings and placed two loaves of bread on a paper towel on the coffee table in front of the TV.

When they’re finally outside again, Tim can’t help but ask, “Who were those people?” He also wants to ask how in the hell Kori and Rachel ever became best friends, but he figures it might be a long story and he’s well aware of how much Kori likes to talk.

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it is some sort of club? I mean, it is Rae’s house…,” she trails off in thought. “Yes. It must be a club.” And that’s that.

Tim doesn’t really want to know what the club consists of, and he guesses not asking might be the better course of action considering he could have sworn there was a pentagram in one of those open books.

The rest of Kori’s stops aren’t as interesting as Rachel’s. She seems to have a very dedicated route mapped out, handing out a loaf of bread to a homeless man who appeared out of a dumpster where Tim would have never found him had Kori not simply stopped and waited for him to emerge, two young kids playing tag in front of an apartment complex, and an empty restaurant in order for Kori to hand a loaf to one of the waitresses. They end at the foster home at the very end of Crime Alley, where Kori gives up the remaining ten loaves. The paper bag was very large, practically dragging on the ground at the start, but Tim still has no idea how Kori had fit it all.

As much as he doesn’t want to be, as he’s sure Jay has things to do and places to be, he’s disheartened by the way Jay has yet to show. Kori must notice by the time they’re heading back to the bread shop and is about to say something, when she spots something in one of the intersecting alleys and stops dead in something like surprise.

“Kori?” Her smile has suddenly become strained.

“Come on,” she says in lieu of an explanation and tries to keep on her way, but Tim has already spotted what caught her attention. He doesn’t follow. “Tim?” she says when she’s a few feet away and finally notices that there aren’t any other footsteps behind her. When she realises where Tim’s looking, her posture finally slumps. It’s the first time Tim has seen her hold herself with anything other than confidence and pride.

She looks sad. Pitying. Like something has just been done to Tim that never should have been done. Or, maybe it isn’t pity. Maybe it’s sympathy. Maybe it’s empathy. It’s hard to tell when this is the first time he’s seen such an expression marring her perfect face, but when her eyes slide to the side to focus on a nondescript point on the concrete, he feels like he sees something akin to regret.

He doesn’t hear her when she says her goodbyes. She had given one last attempt to have him go with her, move on, ignore the situation (why does everyone keep wanting him to _ignore_ everything they feel he can’t handle? He’s stronger than that, even if they can’t be), but when it’s clear that Tim has no intentions to do such things, she correctly assumes that Tim would rather be alone. She leaves, casting him only one backward glance and leaving Tim alone behind a corner of the back street that leads into an alley emptying out onto the main road.

There are two people in the alley. Tim wants to say one is unfamiliar and one is familiar, but he can’t, because someone he thought he knew is behaving just as unfamiliarly as the other, with nervous twitches and a heavy tongue accompanying the way he speaks, a crude lip and hunched figure screaming _wrong, wrong, wrong_ instead of _shy_ like it should, like usual.

He wants to step forward. He’s begging his feet to shift away from their staples in the ground, but they want so badly to back up, to distance themselves from what he’s seeing. In the end, he moves nowhere at all. The unfamiliar figure leaves for the road, and the unrecognisable one enters the backstreet, unaware of Tim until suddenly, they’re face to face.

“Tim--” Jay gasps, eyes widening. Then, he smiles, as if that can make up for the way that he’s been so obviously shaken. “Hey, man. I thought we were gonna meet in the parking lot?”

“We were,” Tim says, and god dammit but his lip is trembling and Jay can see it and he needs to leave _now._ Before he embarrasses himself.

Then again, he already did that when he thought for a second that Jay was being truthful to him. That Jay was unlike others, unlike what the adults in Tim’s neighbourhood whisper when they hiss about the _rotten things_ in the Narrows. “Stealing to survive is one thing. But _that_ isn’t about survival. That’s sick.”

He’s studied it too much. The effects, the types, what it looks like, what it _does_ to people. He’s read the stories and seen the videos and as much as he wants to yell because that’s how scared Tim is, he doesn’t want Jay to turn into nothing but another lost cause, he’s afraid _of_ him, too. Maybe Tim’s read too much and experienced too little. Maybe it’s not as bad as he’s making it out to be, but…

But he’s not prepared for this. He doesn’t know what to do about this. He needs to leave until he can figure out the next course of action. The plan. Until he has _all_ of the research.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Jay says, giving up all pretenses immediately.

No, he’s not afraid. That’s not what he is. Maybe just a little, mixed in, but for the most part…

“It looks like you’re buying heroin,” Tim deadpans.

...For the most part, he’s disappointed.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to reiterate something very important: This is from TIM's POV and ONLY TIM. Which means there is a horribly high possibility that he might be an UNRELIABLE NARRATOR.
> 
> Just because he knows something to be true doesn't mean it is true. Instead, I tend to litter clues and hints (that really only the readers should pick up on) throughout the story that point towards something, even while what Tim says points in another direction. Therefore, Starfire and Raven may seem so severely outside of canon...but are they really? After all, Raven doesn't think she can get sick...and Starfire seems awfully unconcerned about wandering alone in the most dangerous part of town. Wonder what's up with that?
> 
> Events may also be dramatised because of Tim's own feelings. Had I been writing about Jason buying drugs from Kori's POV, she might have just said "And there's Jason, buying drugs again. I sort of wish he wouldn't do that" rather than "Oh my god the world is ending, I've seen this before, I've learned about this, why didn't he tell me about this? We're so close! Is he an addict? Addicts are scary. I've read the stories. Oh no."
> 
> Again, pointing an accusing finger at the tags: misunderstandings. So many misunderstandings are going to happen in this story.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick trigger-warning for the depiction of drug addition and substance abuse.
> 
> This chapter was supposed to be twice as long, but I decided to split it up. That means this update is shorter than I'm normally used to. Next chapter will be the last update set during Tim and Jay's current ages -- we will FINALLY be starting the main plot. Oh boy.
> 
> Apart from that, I want to say that this chapter was based on my own experiences with heroin addicts. I have never used any drugs, but at Jason's age I did have a very close family member severely addicted to heroin and on their death bed from it. I wish I could include more of Catherine's behaviours because they are very important for Jason's state of mind, but as this isn't in Jason's POV and there was no reasonable way to drag out Tim's encounter with her, I'll either have to find a later time to slide in some of the psychological effects for Jason created by her drug abuse (and, mainly, her reactions to it and the things she says to Jason, shown briefly here) or I might write a separate one-shot of this chapter written from Jason's POV. As you can imagine, his thoughts during this chapter are very, very messy, complicated, and full of turmoil, whereas Tim's is very straight-forward and simple in contrast. These two are like separate ends of a balance scale, and together they cancel out their burdens.
> 
> VERY IMPORTANT: It's significant that everyone takes special care to the way Jason behaves. Once more, Tim is an unreliable narrator in parts. Things he mentions briefly and dismisses may be more important than he realises. Since, once more, you aren't seeing Jason's side of the story, you have to read him as an outsider, the same way Tim is reading him, and determine for yourselves what his reasoning behind certain actions are (especially as things progress).
> 
> This story is following Tim's life and Tim's life alone. Because, as readers, you all know what the truth in canon is, you know more than Tim does. Just a head's up -- Tim's little misadventures are going to lead him down correct paths and so many wrong conclusions. And you all get to have the joy of watching him struggle.
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy!

Stupid, stupid, _stupid._

“I know, but it’s not-- you don’t understand,” Jay attempts to reason. “I don’t have a choice.”

That’s what Jay says for _everything._ Is he lying? He says he has no choice but to steal tires, no choice but to live here, no choice… The more Tim hears it, the more it begins to sound like a _pattern._

“You lied to me,” Tim replies, and no, not technically, but yes, because it’s a lie by omission and that’s still a _lie._ Friends don’t lie to each other.

He thinks about Steph and feels like the worst hypocrite.

“Because you...you’d think different of me if I didn’t,” Jay mumbles.

What? Tim stares. “I think pretty differently of you right now,” he says, and he doesn’t intend for it to come out so _mean_ but god, Jay looks like he just slapped him across the face and Tim wants to take it back even when he knows that, deep down, he really doesn’t.

“No, I--I swear, it’s not for me.” Jay looks panicked. “It’s not for me.”

How does that make any sense? Part of Tim is screaming _excuse,_ but he just can’t turn off the small percent of his brain that’s saying, ‘I want to know more.’ “Sure it isn’t,” is what he settles with.

Tim doesn’t think what he’s saying is that horrible. He’s being reasonable, isn’t he? He’s being mature. He’s angry and upset but he isn’t insulting anyone, he isn’t calling names or even yelling. That’s the way his teachers say to have a mature conversation. So why does Jay look like Tim has just reached in and ripped his heart out?

“It’s not. It’s not. I don’t--I wouldn’t ever--”

“How do I know that? I didn’t think you’d ever buy drugs, either,” Tim glares.

Jay stops talking altogether, just stares with his wide eyes and pained expression and...and wet cheeks. When Tim takes a step back, reigns in his own shock and disapproval and anger, he suddenly recognises how red rimmed Jay’s eyes are becoming, his soaked eyelashes, and Tim immediately stops talking. They stand suspended there for a single moment until Jay begins shaking. Not with sobs, though. Maybe restrained sobs. Maybe fear. Tim can’t tell, but he discovers for the first time that when Jay cries, he cries silently, tear tracks marking their way to his chin and dripping off without a single hiccup to force their way.

Jay looks away. It breaks the spell, and Tim finds himself falling forward with the need to comfort his friend, that need momentarily overshadowing the cacophony of emotions currently assaulting his subconscious. Tim stumbles a few steps towards him before approaching more cautiously, like Jay is a scared deer ready to bolt at the slightest bold movement, his hand outstretched until it’s finally resting awkwardly on Jay’s arm. “Hey…,” he whispers, although he doesn’t know what he plans to say. “Don’t cry...I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it...I’m sorry.” Tim doesn’t know if he really is sorry, and he isn’t sure that he didn’t mean any of it, but if it made Jay cry then he doesn’t. He doesn’t mean anything that has the potential to give Jay tears.

It never occurred to Tim, for all of the things that he knows, for all of the information in his head, that the self-assured street kid in front of him _could_ cry.

Jay’s eyes are squeezed shut and he tries to twist away from Tim’s hand. “I’m not fuckin’ glass,” he spits out, but doesn’t move to shove Tim or keep walking.

“I’m sorry,” Tim repeats, ignoring Jay’s comment.

“You wouldn’t be if I wasn’t crying.” Tim stays silent, causing Jay’s lips to curl into a sardonic smirk. “Wow.”

“Why?” Tim finally asks. Jay’s smirk drops and he frowns at the ground. “If they aren’t for you, who are they for? I just want to know, Jay. I want to believe you. Prove to me that I can.”

His _eyes_ are holding something Tim can’t decipher. He can’t read it, can’t understand it, doesn’t know how to name it or place it but he dedicates every breath spent staring at them into committing them to memory, the blue of them layered with how much it seems that they want to say, and the frustration that comes from speaking to someone who can’t translate the words.

* * *

They enter the building quietly. Tim doesn’t see why -- he can hear music blasting through the first apartment to his right, so loud he doesn’t doubt that he’d feel the bass if he put his palm to the door. It must have something to do with Jay’s mood, simultaneously twitchy yet solemn. After all, he’s the one leading the way, and Tim finds himself subconsciously copying his odd behaviours.

They walk straight down the first hallway, then turn left, then right. Tim has already been forced to step over four people passed out against the wall outside of various doors, some of which are half cracked open. There’s a strange odor in the air that he can’t identify, strong and smoky like cigarette smoke but even more permeating and seeping through one of the half open doors, but he doesn’t want to ask Jay because that would require speaking up and he’s not sure if Jay would hear him anyway. The off-white walls are stained and peeling, and Tim doesn’t doubt he’ll find mold if he looks closer between the wall and carpet. They pass a door that’s been kicked in at the center and covered with tape and cardboard before stopping in front of 512B.

Jay digs a key out of his pocket and unlocks the two locks on the door quickly, stepping inside and silently holding it open for the other boy. Tim is tense, coiled like a spring and unbearably awkward as he walks forward only enough for Jay to relock the door handle and accompanying deadbolt.

The apartment is claustrophobic. Not only in its size, which might be, in total, a quarter of the first floor of Tim’s house, but in its mess.

There is a pile of laundry pushed up against the far corner of the living room, most of which Tim can see from where he stands at the doorway and the part he can’t obscured by the kitchen wall, clothes thrown there as if whoever did it had no idea what else to do with it. The pile is so high that it seems as if it could tip over at any moment and bury whichever unfortunate soul is closest. A garbage bag in the kitchen is hanging from one of the lower cabinet handles, and seems to have recently reached its limit because there’s a tear in the bottom and most of its contents are now on the ground.

There are two couches, a coffee table, and old fat-back TV in the living room, which is small enough that Tim doubts more furniture could be fit. The back of the longest couch is facing the doorway and kitchen, blocking the view of what might be on the coffee table from Tim. The carpet is scratchy and stiff and covered in stains he can’t begin to count, while the small stretch of once-white tile in the kitchen has dirt and grime lodged in its many cracks. The air is musky with a smell that can only be identified as human odor, not sweat but the scent of week old laundry and oily hair and the feeling of a humid day. The windows are shut, the blinds drawn and falling past the window sill with no curtains to cover them, causing the heat and musky smell to make it feel as if Tim isn’t drawing in enough breath.

Jay sighs and peers into the living room, leaning heavily onto the small wall separating the kitchen in a way that, under any other circumstances, may have come across as playful. Tim knows better. “Mom? I’m home.”

“Jay,” comes a groan from the couch. The rasp in it, the croak of a dry throat sends shivers up Tim’s arms.

Jay walks to the front of the couch, now facing Tim and his mother, whom Tim can’t see. “Hey. How’re y’feelin’?”

The response is so mumbled that it doesn’t reach Tim. “I will. But you gotta eat first, okay? And drink some water. Promise? You’re only gonna feel worse if y’don’t.”

“No, I--I need it, Jay, please. You...have to help me. Please.”

“I am helpin’ you.”

“Later. I’ll drink and eat...later. After. Trust me. Don’t you trust me?”

Tim’s heart lurches at the familiar words.

Jay doesn’t answer her. He doesn’t look at Tim, either. Just moves silently into the kitchen and fills a glass of water, grabs a banana, and goes back to the couch. “Sip it,” he tells his mother.

“No, I--”

“You need to drink.”

“No! I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“It...it hurts.”

Her voice is a breathy whimper, a cracked plea. It scratches Tim’s ears and settles heavily into the pit of his stomach, digging into his organs like disgust. He slowly begins to inch forward, circling around the arm of the couch just enough to spot her, but not so much that she immediately spots him. She’s busy gingerly sipping the glass that Jay is gently holding up for her.

She’s a thin, emaciated thing of a woman. Long limbed and gangly, or maybe that’s just the way it looks with the fat stripped from her body, like someone took a knife and carved into all of her features, carved a skeleton out of what once was flesh. Her hair may have once been healthy, but is now wispy and tangled like a mop on her head, glinting with oil and grease. Her face looks perpetually sweaty and bruised, her cheeks hollowed out and her eyes sunken in and every bone on her throat visible, the dip of her collarbones acting like cliffs to the valley of the stomach Tim can see peeking out from under her too large University T-shirt. She’s wearing shorts that swallow half of her lower body. Her knees are knobs and her thighs are the size of her calves, which are already too small.

She looks dead.

Tim backpedals quickly, frozen behind the back of the couch. It doesn’t seem as if the woman is going to turn her head and seek him out any time soon. Jay winces when Tim moves and the glass in his hand shakes.

It seems like an eternity before the glass is half drained and the woman, _Jay’s mother_ Tim forces himself to remember, is shaking her head to refuse any more. Jay manages to get half of the banana in her before she’s sputtering nonsense and shaking her head again, grasping desperately at Jay like she’s trying to tug his clothes off and finally, finally, Jay sets the water down with the bag of white powder that Tim had witnessed earlier in the alley.

Jay’s mother is moaning something that Tim can’t make out, but it’s persistent and annoying and very nerve-wracking. He feels his skin crawl and he wants to go somewhere, anywhere that awful noise can’t follow him. Thankfully, Jay’s walking away from the coffee table.

“Wait...wait, I can’t...I need...Jay, help me, help your…”

Jay swallows, shakes his head and keeps walking.

“Jay! Don’t you care about me? Why...why won’t you help me? Why don’t you _love_ me?”

She’s crying now, but Jay doesn’t stop. He makes for a small hallway parallel to the kitchen, gesturing for Tim to go first because he’s closer. “I got it for you. But I won’t put it in you.” He never assures her that he loves her. Tim wonders if maybe this is an exchange that's happened before, because Jay looks exhausted.

“Jay!” She must be trying to yell, but the loudest noise she seems able to make is a groan.

Tim is nothing but relieved when they enter another room and Jay shuts the door behind them. He shivers when he can still hear the woman’s voice whining from the living room, like nails on a chalkboard.

The room they’re in now is so small that there’s really only room for the bed. There’s just enough space for the door to close, but then Tim is forced to get on the bed in order to climb over to the far side, where there’s a bedside table with an old, clunky black radio that has a thick wire Tim almost trips over. There’s about a foot of floor space until the closet, though the closet door has been removed and replaced with a shower curtain.

Jay climbs on the bed after him. He kicks off his shoes. Tim follows in his example.

They sit in heavy, tense silence.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Jay says, finally. It doesn’t shatter the quiet. If anything, after his words have stopped their echo, it makes the atmosphere seem all the more consuming. Tim’s mouth feels sticky with saliva. The woman has gone abruptly silent.

He’s about to ask something, anything -- where is Jay’s father? Does he have any brothers? Sisters? Who’s paying the bills? Why can’t anyone get her any help? How long has she been this way? -- but Jay has something more on his mind and is quicker to words than him.

“You’re still my friend, right?”

When Tim turns his head and looks Jay in the eyes, he sees the expression he wasn’t quite able to decipher earlier -- anticipation, like the way a face looks when someone is bracing themselves to be punched. Fear.

Tim recalls his words earlier, tries to put himself in Jay’s shoes but finds it impossible. He can’t understand. There are still so many of Jay’s behaviours that he can’t make out, thought processes he can’t follow. But he thinks that this might be one that he’s caught up to. “Just because your life is...different, doesn’t mean you can’t be my friend. That isn’t what friendship is about. I like you, Jay. All of you. This?”--he waves his hand around the room--”I...If this was my home, I don’t know...I don’t know what I’d do. And in that way? You’re so much _better_ than me.” He tries to offer his best, steadiest smile. It probably comes out lopsided. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home instead of hiding it.” The last statement is awkward for him to say, formal and too mature, but he's heard it on the TV before and it seems like the appropriate response now.

It seems to be, because it's the first time that Jay hugs him.

The next hour is spent laying on Jay’s unreasonably cardboard-like bed, both listening to the radio drone on about something political that Tim may or may not be able to recall later, and listening to each other. Sometimes they talk. Sometimes they just breathe. And sometimes, like now, Tim is allowed to wrap one arm around Jay’s chest and hold him in a hug that doesn’t require any effort except for gravity. Neither of them seem to be very good with their words for extended periods of time, but the physical comfort seems to mean something that, although Tim still can’t translate, he feels he can understand.

When they get up again, Jay’s mother is out cold on the couch. So Jay turns up the radio, just enough that they can hear it all throughout the house, and watches in bemusement as Tim sets to work.

He starts with opening the blinds. The sudden brightness is a shock to both of their systems. Although the sun isn’t out today, the cloud cover is more than reflective enough. But he shoulders through, opening the windows as high as he can reach. Jay ends up helping him with the last few inches.

Then it’s the laundry. He digs a trash bag out from under the sink and fits as much as he can carry, then takes out another one and repeats. By the end, there are three bags of clothes that Tim can carry as long as he either swings them over his shoulder like Santa or lugs them at his knees while waddling like a penguin. Jay helps him by carrying two and shows him where the laundry room for the complex is. Tim separates the colours and has to start three different machines, paying for them himself without asking Jay. At some point, the other boy disappears and doesn’t reappear until Tim has made the second trip back to his apartment because he can’t carry the now clean laundry all at once.

It’s with two gigantic bowls of popcorn. Apparently he had gotten (Tim is good at reading between the lines and they say ‘stolen’) them from the ‘always drunk, never notices anything, gonna end up dead one day if he keeps leaving his door unlocked’ man at the other end of the complex.

So they eat popcorn and organise Jay and his mother’s laundry into their closets, occasionally breaking out into obnoxiously bad dancing to overplayed pop music. Jay walks into the ‘basically a drug den’ across the hall (and Tim discovers the smoky smell that’s everywhere is actually pot -- fantastic) and asks to borrow their vacuum while they’re all too high and compliant on hookah to care. Jay ends up vacuuming while Tim washes the windows and dusts the TV and cleans the dishes (because there are more dishes on the coffee table than in the cabinets) and washes all the flat surfaces and by the end of it all, Tim can’t help but remark how he would never do a fraction of what they had just done in his own house even if his parents _paid_ him to.

Due to Tim exclaiming, “Do I look like your maid? Pull your own weight, ese!” Jay ends up being the one to scrub the tile floors (Tim doesn’t envy him. It’s disgusting to even watch) while Tim lounges on top of the cabinets, soaking his tired feet in the sink filled with warm soapy water, eating the remaining popcorn (he makes sure to change the radio to a classical station as well -- nothing like Chopin to set the mood for manual labour).

“Why can’t you do this? You’re closer to the ground!”

“Normally. But right now, I’m on a cabinet, and if you complain again I’m finding you a blue dress to wear, Cinderella.”

Tim doesn’t end up leaving. They eventually go back to Jay’s room to get their shoes so that they can set out on the trek out of the Narrows, even though it’s already well past dark, but they must be more exhausted than they thought. When Tim opens his eyes again, it’s already light out, and there’s a warm, steady weight beside him.

He’s surprised to find Jay’s face curled into the side of his neck, his warm breath brushing against the younger boy’s collarbone. He’s hugging Tim’s left arm like a koala and Tim doesn’t know what exactly to do about it. He isn’t sure he wants to do anything about it. Evidently, it’s not up to him. He finds himself laughing at the way Jay sleeps with his mouth open and accidentally wakes the boy up.

Unfortunately, Jay is quick to remind Tim that his parents are going to murder him, causing Tim to hightail it out of there. Or so he tries. Before he can get very far, Jay grabs him by the arm and fishes the phone out of Tim’s pocket, taking the world’s quickest picture consisting of Jay grinning ear to ear and Tim blinking like a deer in headlights. Both of their hair is sticking straight up and they look utterly ridiculous.

“And that’s how you take a morning-after selfie,” Jay says with satisfaction.

Tim doesn't know what a 'morning-after' selfie entitles, but he swears to him that he’s going to delete it. He never does.


	6. Chapter 6

A little over a week later, Tim doesn’t enter the Narrows by his usual route. In fact, he goes by a completely different route and  _ sneaks  _ there, because under no circumstances can Jay see him. The world might actually end.

His efforts are for naught when he arrives at the bread shop and he hears Kori talking to Jay in the back. Loudly. Tim heeds the warning with appreciation and enters the bread shop through the front entrance, sneaking around to the kitchen and crouching in front of the oven, clutching his backpack in his arms as if hiding his face behind it would be a sufficient enough disguise if Jay were to walk in.

“What do people say again? ‘Close call’?” Kori says as she walks into the kitchen roughly five minutes later. “I do not understand it, because I do not remember anyone calling anyone, but it seems to be correct.”

Tim snorts as he lowers his bag. He doesn’t mean to, but his heart is thrumming so quick that Kori’s unexpected naivety pulls it out of him. “I think it comes from sports. Like, when a coach makes a certain call, he’s deciding a way to play a game, and a close call is when the strategy he decides just barely wins.”

Kori looks bemused. “But this is not football. This is you hiding in front of my oven.”

Tim shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, English is weird,” he says, cautiously standing up. 

(“If you don’t mind me asking, what language do you speak?” is a question that Tim had asked those weeks ago while Kori was taking Tim on her rounds, before he had gone to Jay’s apartment.

Kori had stared at the ground, swinging the bag at her hip as if it didn’t weigh a ton from what was probably fifteen loaves of bread. “English.”

“I mean, before that.”

“...Japanese.”

Tim had unintentionally squinted at her, trying to size up her answer, because Tim couldn’t and still can’t imagine two Japanese parents giving birth to a redhead with green eyes and absurdly tan skin. Maybe she’s adopted? But even that doesn’t make sense, because her accent isn’t Asian in the slightest. And she looked nervous. “You don’t look Japanese.”

“Oh, I speak Japanese, but I am not from Japan. I am from…Tanzania,” she had said, although she had stuttered slightly while saying the name of the country.

“You’re from  _ Africa _ ?”

“...Yes?”

Adopted. Tim had come to the conclusion that Kori was very much adopted.)

“He is gone,” Kori says now with a bright smile, bordering on mischevious.   


Tim gives her a smile, and though Tim doesn’t make a habit of smiling often, this one comes out of him easier than normal. He’s shifting from foot to foot with excess energy. “Do you have it?”

“Of course!”

Kori disappears into the back to bring out a plain, unassuming white box, and together they sneak out of the back of the shop. Tim follows Kori -- she clearly knows all the routes to take that won’t send them crashing into Jay -- and before he knows it, they’re walking slowly up the fire escape of a familiar nightclub. Kori sets her box down while Tim sets down his backpack and takes in the scene around him, but Kori doesn’t allow him to dawdle for long, giving him directions back to the parking lot that’s normally his first stop and shooing him off of the roof.

“What took y’so long?” Jay complains when Tim appears in front of him. After all, Tim is normally the one waiting for Jay instead of the other way around.

“Now you know how it feels,” is all Tim says.

Jay rolls his eyes and just like that, they begin walking. They normally do this. Set out in an aimless direction until their conversation leads them to something that they decide they want to do. Jay doesn’t even notice that Tim is deliberately choosing what turns they take. He’s too busy monitoring the words coming out of his mouth.

“So...I, uh. I don’t think I ever said this. But...thanks,” he says.

Tim frowns. “For what?”

“Everything,” Jay admits. “The...you cleaned my house. I’ve never cleaned my house. I don’t remember the last time  _ anyone  _ cleaned my house. Or did laundry. I guess I smelled pretty bad, huh? I don’t actually know how to use the washing machine.” The words seem like they’re just spilling out of his mouth by that point.

“You don’t have chores?” Tim asks, and then wants to slap himself.

Jay gives an awkward, one shouldered shrug. “She’s usually too outta it to make me do ‘em.”

They keep walking in companionable silence, their arms brushing, until Tim realises he never answered. “You’re welcome. But you don’t have to thank me.”

“Sure I do.”

“No, not really. You never asked me to, so. I wanted to. Someone should have already helped you. I was just doing what anyone should have done.”

“Should’ve and would’ve, scrap,” Jay responds. “Should’ve and would’ve. When it comes to helping a kid like me -- somebody should’ve, nobody would’ve.”

Jay’s full focus is now concentrated on Tim. He’s staring intensely at the side of his face when they finally approach the alley that Tim has in mind. “Something you’re gonna learn real fast. All of us? We’re just numbers in a box. The world out there likes to write us up and toss us in and close the lid, lock it, throw away the key. Take a number out, look at it, but you ain’t gonna find who we are. Slip of paper’s too small to fit it, so they don’t bother fitting nothing at all. 

“Go to war, one guy dies, it’s a tragedy. But a hundred die? That’s just casuality. We all been casualties from the start, and nobody cares ‘nuff to do anything ‘bout it.”

Jay is in his own head now. Tim can tell by the way his words trail off, every phrase filled with wonder like he’s putting the sentence together correctly for the first time, cementing it in reality by saying it outloud, making it a thought to hold onto instead of just something abstract and stuck in his mind, forever floating away. Tim has a faint feeling like he’s not truly grasping what Jay’s saying, but one thing he knows for certain is that he doesn’t like the way Jay sounds when he’s like this, like he’s coming from a distance. Tim doesn’t like it when he sounds so far away.

Today isn’t supposed to be like that. Tim wants Jay to come back to him, so he reaches forward before he knows for sure what he’s planning to do and gently grabs his elbow, keeps his fingers pressed against the warmth of Jay’s skin and waits until Jay’s attention slowly swims back. Jay blinks and there, that’s the face Tim knows, one he recognises although he’s not consciously identifying the emotions and facts he sees in it, a face of crude intelligence (because Jay is so smart, but he must know that because how could anyone not?) and soft apprehension, of open caution to trust but hidden willingness to try and Tim flashes that face the best smile he can.

It must be enough. Jay’s out of his head now, and his lips quirk up to smile back. He finally notices that they’re standing at the back of the nightclub, and he cocks his head just the smallest bit, like he always does when he knows something’s up and is confused about it without being overly concerned.

Tim can’t believe he’s only known him for two months.

Jay cracks some sort of joke. Tim isn’t listening. He’s too busy looking ahead, at the back of Jay’s head as the other boy leads the way up the fire escape, trying to force the smile off his face.

And then they’re at the top and Tim feels like everything is inadequate, but it doesn’t look like Jay feels the same. The grin has dropped off his face for an expression of shock, and Tim squeezes past him in order to grab him by the elbow again and pull him along so they’re standing in a circle with Kori, who has a blanket spread out on the concrete, sitting on a pillow with two empty pillows meant as seats for the boys across from her, with plates in front of every pillow and a tray in the middle.

There are balloons around the whole set-up, with a convenient little gap for Tim and Jay to walk through. The balloons are taped to the ground to prevent them from flying away and there’s a radio seated innocently beside Kori, playing some sort of commercial in a very quiet, hushed tone.

On the tray in front of her is the biggest, chocolatey-ist chocolate cake Tim has ever seen in his  _ life. _

“Happy birthday!” Kori exclaims loudly, elegantly tip-toeing off the blanket and launching herself at Jay outside of the circle of balloons so to not disrupt the cute design. Tim says it with her, but quieter, standing off to the side as Jay gets assaulted by a whirlwind of red hair (he looks like he’s desperately trying to decide what to do with his hands, settling for wrapping them around her upper back as she grabs him around the middle and hoists him up into a soul-crushing hug because she’s taller than him).

“Wh--thanks,” Jay says, laughing off his surprise awkwardly. “But...how did you know it’s my birthday?”

“I did not. Friend Tim did,” Kori beams, turning to face the other boy who has made his way onto one of the pillows. It’s a surprisingly pleasant makeshift chair.

Tim feels his face heat up and turns it away in favour of testing out the icing on the cake. It really is gigantic. He feels like maybe he should have found 20 more people to come to the party just to help eat it. Tim doesn’t have a very big stomach on his hungriest days.

“She’s the one who made the cake,” Tim replies lamely.

“He bought the balloons.”

“She set it up.”

“He picked the place.”

“She did everything else.”

Kori huffs. “He is the one who brought you  _ two  _ gifts.”

Frick.

“Gifts?” Jay responds absentmindedly, staring with wide eyes at the cake. He takes his seat last and reaches forward to taste the icing--

Kori slaps his hand away. Jay protests with, “Tim did it!” but the girl isn’t letting him touch her masterpiece. Instead, she lifts the tray with the cake and sets it aside to reveal the pizza box underneath.

“Dinner first, then desert,” she says firmly.

“It’s lunchtime,” pouts Jay.

The way they’re playfully bantering with each other has Tim attempting to stifle giggles, but eventually they settle down to eat the pepperoni-sausage-mushroom-green pepper-bacon-olive-ham-god-knows-what-else-pizza (“I was not sure what you liked…?” Kori had said tentatively upon revealing the food. “So I ordered everything.” “Y’know, for future reference, just cheese is fine, too.”). The youngest member of the trio had thought that having only three people at an event would lead to awkward silence, but that’s the furthest thing from what ends up happening (which is illustrated when Tim finishes his first slice and finally goes, “I swear if you talk with your mouth full one more time, Jay--”).

When they’re done, there are three pieces left, and it’s a unanimous vote that the leftovers go to Jay. Tim digs soda cans out of his backpack and hands everyone a Pepsi, having forgotten it while they were eating because the sheer amount of talking Jay and Kori are able to do while devouring a large pizza is terrifying (Tim shouldn’t have been surprised, considering they’re both talkative enough when separated) and Tim was busy being an entertained spectator (choking numerous times on a pepperoni by some of the smartass comments Jay likes to throw back at Kori).

Kori finally brings the cake back in front of them, but they just sit there staring at it once they realise that they have no way of cutting it. “I knew I forgot something,” Kori gasps, covering her mouth with her hands in embarrassment. Jay just laughs at her, and keeps on laughing when Kori jumps up and begins running for the fire escape, exclaiming that she’ll be right back.

Suddenly, Kori is gone and the silence is back and Tim’s heart kickstarts because he knows he isn’t near as talkative or entertaining or fun as Kori is. For some reason, he’s freaking out because he doesn’t have any idea how to start a conversation, which is absurd because Jay and Tim are alone roughly 98% of the time and they do just fine, but Jay has spent all this time talking to Kori and he’s bound to be disappointed with how Tim just can’t carry a conversation to the ends of the earth like she can--

“I’m not cleaning these dishes,” Jay snorts.

The words are coming out of Tim’s mouth before he has a chance to think about them. “No. I’m pretty sure that’s my job.”

Somehow, it’s the right thing to say. Tim feels himself calming down as Jay turns to him and flashes him a wide grin, the widest Tim thinks he’s ever seen him wear, and he doesn’t know why but he knows in the same way that he knows the air is made up of millions of tiny particles that it’s so much better when Jay’s smiling like that at Tim instead of Kori.

“So, uh,” Jay starts, his eyes glancing down almost shyly but his teeth showing with the way his cheeks are all puffed up. “Kori said you’ve got presents?”

Nope, nevermind. Tim has not calmed down. He feels dizzy with how nervous he is, but still manages to turn around to dig into his backpack, even if just to turn his face away from Jay’s piercing eyes. “Yeah...Just. Yeah. They’re...they’re kind of lame. Sorry.”

He pulls out the squishy package first, quickly handing it to Jay and sitting on his fingers to try and keep them from shaking. Jay takes it slowly and stares at it like it’s the best thing in the world, which makes Tim instantly wish he got a better gift. He doesn’t want to disappoint an expression like that. He holds his breath as Jay peels the wrapping paper back and slowly holds up the jacket.

It’s a leather jacket Tim was able to find when his father took him to the shopping mall yesterday. Tim’s father wanted his help to find the perfect jewelry for Tim’s parents’ anniversary, even though everything shiny just kind of looks all the same to him, but while his father was occupied with looking through the jewelry cases Tim’s eye had been caught by one of the stands beside them.

Tim doesn’t know when he had started associating leather jackets with Jay, but when he saw it, all he could think of was Jay’s torn, dull with age, ratty jacket and although he had already had a gift in mind, he knew he had to give it to him. 

The jacket is black on the outside, textured instead of smooth like Tim had expected, with a small buckle that buttons across the zipper at the very top. It has strips of non-leather fabric on either side that stretch, and the inside is covered in a warm, fluffy crimson layer that sort of reminds Tim of fleece. The best part, Tim thinks, is how the inside isn’t smooth and silky like the other jackets. Tim knows from experience that on cold days, if he’s wearing short sleeves, he tends to feel colder in a leather jacket (at least, until his body heat warms up the interior, which tends to take a while). But with fabric like this, which also goes into the inside of the sleeves, Tim doesn’t think Jay will ever get cold.

He had thought it was perfect, but he’s pretty sure Jay hates it because he’s looking at it like  _ that.  _ Jay whips his head around to stare at Tim. “Dude,  _ leather? _ This musta been so expensive!”

Tim blinks, because that doesn’t mean Jay hates it, but he also sounds kind of horrified, so. “It’s not real leather.”

“Still costs a  _ lot.” _

“Rich kid, remember?”

Jay drops the jacket into his lap and stares at him like he can’t believe Tim is even  _ real.  _

“You hate it, don’t you?” Tim asks, his voice small.

It takes Jay a moment to respond, but when he does, he shakes his head so quickly that Tim is afraid his neck is going to snap and immediately begins putting the jacket on with renewed enthusiasm. “No,” Jay says, reverent as he runs his hand over the inside flap. He gets up to adjust it. It’s way too big. It’s perfect. “I love it. I fuckin’  _ love  _ it. Man, this is sick!”

Jay is so happy that he actually  _ giggles  _ in awe _ ,  _ and Tim feels his worries melt away like butter.

“There’s, uh, another one,” Tim says, swallowing, trying to push away the rest of his nerves because his explanation for this one is sort of weird and he hopes Jay doesn’t think he’s weird for it, because that would suck. “It’s not expensive, don’t worry.” He hands the much smaller, boxed package to Jay as the other boy sits back down.

He tears into the wrapping paper of this one much more quickly. His smile fades when he sees the cover, but not in unhappiness. Confusion, if anything. “This…” Jay starts, weighing the gift in his hand with his mouth slightly ajar. “This is the  _ biggest  _ damn book I have  _ ever  _ seen. Who actually writes this much? Holy shit.” He begins flipping through the pages. “Oh my god, they better be a billionaire because this is insane.”

Tim smiles. “I don’t know how rich he was, but he’s pretty famous. Died a long time ago, though.”

“When’d he die?” Jay asks absentmindedly, still running his hands over the pages.

“1870.”

That causes Jay to pause and squint at Tim. “...Is this Shakespeare?”

Tim snorts. “Shakespeare died two hundred years before Alexandre Dumas was even  _ born.  _ Uhm...It’s. Well. It’s my favourite book, but…” Nope, no use in pretending, he’s nervous again. “I mean, a lot of people expect it to be super boring because it’s old. And it’s kind of hard to read. I can’t really read it. I don’t understand a lot of it when I read it because there’s some pretty hard words. But I’m going to read it this year. My nanny reads it to me every year. I kind of make her. And when she reads, she changes her voice and mocks the accents and, she’s pretty good at French and the main characters are all French and, and she explains to me what’s going on and it’s easy when she does it but, well, I don’t know, I just…”

God, he’s rambling. Shut up, Tim, shut  _ up. _

But Jay’s expression is now nothing but open, earnest curiousity. “I’m a pretty bad reader. Never paid much attention in school.”

“You can learn. You...you can learn through the book.”

Except, Tim must have forgotten that he’s the only bookworm he knows, and he doubts Jay likes books, and what was he  _ thinking. _

Instead of immediately rejecting the idea, Jay places the book in his lap and stares down at the cover. “What’s it about?”

They’re sitting close enough that Tim can stare down at the cover with Jay. It’s nice, because then he doesn’t have to look Jay in the face. “Revenge,” he says eventually. “It’s about a good person who gets unlucky and gets betrayed by people he thought were his friends, by people he trusted. So he spends his entire life planning and slowly taking his revenge on them.”

The silence lapses. Jay runs a hand over the cover once more, before slowly turning the front page. He freezes. “It’s...it’s yours?”

Written there, in horrendously blocky letters, is the name  _ Timothy Drake.  _ “Yeah,” Tim says quietly, fiddling with his untied shoe laces. “It’s my favourite book. Used to be my dad’s. I had to do some research with my nanny about old French politics, that’s how hard it is, though. So… You probably shouldn’t read it yet. Maybe in a few years. But I want you to have it, because it reminds me of you.”

A frown. “How?”

“Because the world is unfair to you, too. But in the end, the main character is the one who ends up on top. Even though everyone betrays him...in the end, he wins. He’s the one who gets to be happy, not the people who hurt him. So no matter how unfair the world is, no matter what it does to you, there’s still always a way to fight back.”

Jay draws in a shaky breath. Tim pretends not to hear how broken it sounds. Instead, he just...keeps talking.

“The main character is named Edmund and he’s a sailor, and he’s pretty much never done anything wrong in his life. Everyone loves him. He’s a great guy, super nice and everything, but he’s unlucky, like  _ really  _ unlucky. You see, there used to be this guy named  _ Napoleon…” _

Tim never truly finds out what Jay does with the book that day. He explains the story, leaving the details of the hows and whys vague on purpose (despite how much Jay attempts to press him for answers) until Kori comes back, and even then, she sits there in silence until he’s done with his summary. Kori gives Jay her present, new ankle-high sneakers that seem to excite Jay so they must be nice, and they eat cake, and they play tag, and they go on Kori’s rounds and play hide and seek (Tim gets dragged into a dumpster again), and the entire time Jay refuses to put the book down or take off the jacket even though the book is cumbersome and the weather certainly isn’t cold.

At the end of the day, when they part ways, Tim looks back once to see Jay walking with the front cover of the book open, staring at Tim’s scribbled name with a smile. Tim doesn’t know why at the time, but looking at it makes him smile, too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Should’ve and would’ve, scrap,” Jay responds. “Should’ve and would’ve. Helping me -- somebody should’ve, nobody would’ve.”
> 
> I'm just going to slide that there and rant internally because it's basically the motto of Jay's life. And yes, it's most certainly a reference to when he comes back to life and no one helps him get over his trauma, instead just tossing him out of Gotham. I try hard not to, but god do I hate Batman 99% of the time.
> 
> But there you have it! The end of this small portion of our favourite boys' lives. Next chapter starts over two years later.


	7. Chapter 7

Tim is falling.

There’s a lurch in his gut, like an anvil got dropped and stretched his organs all the way down to his toes, and the world is spinning. Suddenly, his skin is so much more sensitive to the temperature of the room, like someone just trickled cold water down his spine and he’s falling and his life is ending.

Meanwhile, his mother just keeps _talking._ “You’ve already been enrolled into the local private school. Certainly, the education will be much better than this school you’ve been going to.”

Tim is shaking his head before he even registers it. “No, no, I-- _why?”_

“What do you mean, why?” Tim can’t tell if she’s genuinely curious or if she’s challenging him. Her head is cocked, but it’s hard to tell with her.

“ _Why? How?”_ Tim demands, jumping to his feet. “I-- we-- we paid for this house! It’s ours! Why move?”

“We don’t like living here anymore. You could be getting so much better, Timmy.”

“We don’t have the money--”

“Oh, you are way too young to be worrying about our money, especially when there’s nothing to worry about,” his mother says, her voice deceivingly gentle but back rimrod straight as Tim’s father stands to push down on Tim’s shoulder. He sits down slowly, so slowly.

“I thought-- the company is failing, it’s, we don’t--”

His mother’s eyes snap to his father’s. His father’s hand presses a little deeper into his shoulder. “Tim,” he says firmly, but quietly, quieter than even his mother’s voice, but that should be no surprise. Everything about this family, this house, is quiet. “I don’t know where you heard that”--from them, Tim heard that from _them,_ from all their arguments, from all their--”but our company is _not_ failing, okay? In fact, business is going very, very well. That’s why we’re moving. There’s no point living here when we can afford so much better.”

They’re moving because his parents are ashamed. Ashamed to be living here, because what will their associates say? Their competition? Tim knows, and he knows because he _listens._

He listens to everyone, so why does no one listen to him?

Tim springs back to his feet and he’s running before they can order for him to get back, because he might just obey and this time he doesn’t want to. He runs out the door and doesn’t know where he’s going, not until he’s jumped the fence and into a familiar lawn and is throwing a branch he just ripped off of a bush at one of the upstairs windows. It falls short, but the window is open and there’s a split second where it manages to balance on the sill.

A friendly head of blonde hair peeks over the threshold to stare as the branch falls. Her eyes catch Tim’s, long hair swinging like Rapunzel.

“Steph,” Tim pants, and that makes no sense because he hasn’t run very far, he shouldn’t be this out of breath. Still, his heart pounds like he just ran a marathon and his head is still spinning, spinning.

Stephanie is immediately alarmed. “Tim?” she exclaims. She whips her head around to look back inside, presumably at her bedroom door. “One sec.”

This isn’t necessarily unusual. One of them is normally gaining each other’s attention this way, mainly Tim because Mrs. Brown is home a lot more often than the Drakes are and Tim is unreasonably uncomfortable around adults, particularly parental figures. Steph finds it weird and has no problem walking right up to Tim’s door and pressing the doorbell fifty thousand times. It also helps that Tim is normally the only one to hear, unless the maid is over (they’ve known each other since they were toddlers, yet Steph still remains shocked that Tim has a maid. Tim doesn’t understand the big deal. Their house isn’t spectacularly rich, two-stories with three bedrooms and a wide open floor plan in an average suburb, but it certainly isn’t small enough for a maid to be unheard of. Plus, in Tim’s opinion, the warm brown and gold decor combined with the spiraling staircase always makes it seem bigger than it is, and the echoing walls don’t help).

The sliding glass back door is thrown open. “My mom is at the store,” she frowns, staring at Tim in an intense way that might remind Tim of his own mother, if there wasn’t something completely different in those eyes, something Tim knows his mother could never carry.

Stephanie makes it a habit to tell Tim exactly where her mother is, and he appreciates it. He doesn’t go terribly out of his way to avoid them if she’s there, but the heads up is always nice. The way Tim acts around Stephanie is dramatically different from the meek way he behaves around adult figures, and catching him off guard makes for a very uncomfortable transition. Much more relaxed now that he knows he won’t run into the woman (she’s not a bad person, really, she’s spectacularly kind and consistently reminds Tim that he’s invited to dinner, but Tim can’t place the feeling it is with adults, this caution and restraint he feels around them, like he’s locking something up and can’t find the key), Tim steps into the living room and quickly makes his way upstairs, trusting that she’ll follow.

Tim collapses onto Steph’s bed when he arrives in her room and stays perfectly still, face buried in the purple comforter as he hears Steph close the door behind them. “What’s wrong?” she asks. Tim can hear the concern in her voice, but his chest feels too tight to answer.

She climbs onto the bed after him and, because she’s Steph, lays perpendicular to Tim and props her legs on his back. Tim figures she’s doing something on her phone while waiting for him to answer, and the knowledge that she isn’t paying him rapt attention while he feels like he’s falling apart makes it a little better. She moves not long after and he doesn’t know why until she scoots around until they’re parallel and she’s able to drag Tim onto her shoulder for a hug. He notices his tears only when they’re free from the bed covers.

“I’m moving,” he croaks out. Her hold tightens a fraction before quickly releasing, but Tim can still tell how tense she’s gotten all of the sudden.

“...What?” she asks, cautiously, giving Tim the chance to correct any misunderstandings.

“I’m moving,” he repeats, lifting his head to stare miserably at her, and when he sees her lips part slightly and her eyes dampen, he knows he’s done for. He lays his head back down and allows himself to cry.

A few minutes pass when Tim starts to calm down, only because he’s stubbornly not thinking about everything that moving entitles and is instead compartmentalising it.

He’s moving. That means he will eat and sleep in a different building (he’s going to a different school, no friends, no one he kno--), he doesn’t like his current house that much anyway (new neighbours, he doesn’t--), it’s too empty and old and he’ll be glad for a new-- (he’ll rarely be able to see Jay).

He starts to cry again. This time, he can feel Steph crying with him.

* * *

“Where?” Steph says, her voice choked. He knows how that feels.

“Diamond District,” he says, slowly, taking deep drags of breath. He can do this. His head hurts from crying but his limbs feel too heavy to get water, which means he shouldn’t cry anymore. He doesn’t want to feel more ill than he already does.

“But that’s only for--” the rich people. The one percent. He knows what she isn’t saying. He can’t quite believe the change either.

He can’t quite believe it in expression, but he should have seen. The sudden influx of money corresponding directly to the increased absences of his parents. Shorter work days but longer business trips and later nights. More paperwork but less stress. A cleaner, emptier house. A bigger allowance. More gifts at Christmas. The lack of a creased brow when they go shopping for school clothes and supplies, hardly looking at the price tags when they’re picking something out. Thumbing the fabric instead of the paper.

The day Tim realised that he’s never caught sneaking out not because he’s just that good at not being caught, but because his parents are simply too busy to bother catching him.

And he should be happy. Because Tim knows the hushed arguments his parents would make with thin lips could be linked directly with his father’s failing company, competition having become too much for a place that makes its business the technological age while not having enough right minds to make the right calls for the right advancements. But he can’t. He can’t stare at the yard visible through Stephanie’s bedroom window and know that he won’t be able to use it as an easy escape for whenever he’s frustrated or bored or lonely and pretend he’s happy.

“Don’t go,” Steph says, finally, finishing her sentence with something else.

“I don’t want to.”

“Just don’t go,” insists Steph, clutching his arm in her death grip. “Tell them you refuse to go. They can’t _make_ you.”

Yes, they can. But he knows the way that Steph thinks. The way her mind works. Her life is different from Tim’s. Her mother wants nothing but to make Steph happy, has no real power over her, not after her  _father._ He held that power through fear and once they were rid of him, Steph never cowered in front of authority again. She holds her ground. She talks back and she does whatever the hell she wants. To her, they are nothing but her equals, nothing but people with too much talk. They can’t touch her.

Tim can just imagine it, and the image both frustrates and amuses him. Steph’s mother telling Steph that they’re moving. Steph would probably go to Tim’s house, but instead of laying in his bed and crying, she would stay the night. A few nights. She’d go back to her house, and if everything was packed, she’d immediately unpack everything. Maybe she’d bring it over to Tim’s house, too. Even if she was driven all the way to Diamond District while she was asleep, Tim can see her taking the bus all the way back and spending the rest of the night in the house, empty or not.

She’s kind of a stubborn bitch. Tim feels okay with calling her that because she calls herself it all the time. But she’s not Tim.

Sometimes, Tim feels like a puppet. Whereas Steph would cut her strings, Tim is the one of the two to realise that there are times when those strings are the only things keeping them up. She would struggle through the aftermath, teach herself to walk again, while Tim wouldn’t be able to help but remember how hard it was learning to walk the first time. Some actions require more thought than others. He tends to recognise quicker which actions those are.

Tim slips his phone from his pocket (yeah, he definitely should have known something was up when his mother bought him the latest Galaxy for his twelfth birthday) and taps the Google search bar. Stephanie scoots closer curiously.

 Tim normally prides himself on staying updated. He didn’t stay updated on this. Looks like his father finally sucked up his pride on something. If Wayne Enterprises is acting as a net, no wonder Drake International has more money, especially if Wayne Enterprise's research and resources is being made accessible to Drake International. It doesn’t explain why Wayne Enterprises wants to work with a formerly failing company, though he supposes their decision paid off because DI is certainly back on its feet and more than likely significantly beneficial, but if he looks more into the articles Tim has no doubt there will be something slipped in about a portion of Drake International being bought by Wayne Enterprises. It would explain the decrease in his parents’ stress. Maybe Drake International has some useful inventions tucked away after all.

Stephanie doesn’t seem to understand what the big deal about the search results is, but she doesn’t pry.

The two of them lay in silence for hours after that. They aren’t doing nothing -- Steph takes up social media and Tim plucks one of his books that he left over here from the floor. This is normally the routine when they don’t feel like heading outdoors. They can do exactly what they’re doing in their own respective households, but the companionship is comforting, and Tim could use that right about now. If the way Tim shifts on the bed to change his position jostles Steph every once in awhile, she doesn’t say anything. If the way Steph starts laughing at a funny Snapchat while Tim is in the middle of reading a dramatic monologue breaks his concentration, he doesn’t mind.

At some point while the sun is setting and Tim is absolutely immersed in Inkheart, Steph takes it upon herself to grab his attention. It doesn’t work at first, Tim being determined to finish the rest of the paragraph before responding to her nudges, but ignoring Steph just isn’t a thing that can be done in this world and Tim is once again reminded of her unfaltering persistence when she slips her phone to rest on his book in front of Tim’s nose.

He’s looking at an Instagram picture of Bette Kane in a sparkling, strapless blue dress, her blonde hair shaped into perfect curls cascading down her shoulders. “Uh,” Tim says with a blink, having to take a moment to leave behind fire-breathing people in order to come back to reality. “Nice dress?”

“It’s for the Winter formal,” Steph explains helpfully.

“Cool.”

Tim is about to return to his book when he realises Steph is waiting for something. Of course she is. She never does anything without having some ulterior motive. “Do you have a dress yet?” he asks, figuring the topic is a safe bet.

“No. You?”

“Oh.” It takes a moment for the rest of her response to kick in, and Tim memorises his page number before gently closing the book and twisting his body to glare at her.

Steph grins one of her toothy grins. It’s much wider now that she got her braces taken off.

“I’d probably look better in a dress, anyway,” is Tim’s answer as he decides that sacrificing his pride for the potential look on Steph’s face is worth it. He isn’t disappointed.

“Jerk!”

Tim rolls his eyes, but the exhausting ordeals of the day prevents him from cracking a smile with her. He comes close, though. They both know that they’re blatantly ignoring the elephant in the room, but, alas, it’s the only thing they really can do, isn’t it?

When Tim doesn’t offer anything in response, Steph sighs dramatically. It doesn’t work. Tim’s eyes remain on the book he’s flipping open again, only humming distractedly to show that there’s a slight possibility he might be paying attention to her. Steph nudges him again. “I was wondering if you wanted to go?”

“To what?” Yeah, the percent of Tim paying attention to Steph is small indeed. He snaps back to focus when Steph turns her nudge into a punch. “Ow! Jeez.”

“Do you want to go to the Winter formal with me?”

Tim raises his eyebrows at her, because she’s biting her lip and that means she’s nervous, which is weird. Steph is never nervous. “Not really. You know how much I hate those things.”

“Oh.”

A minute later, “It’ll be fun.”

Tim truly doubts that. “Shady kids filling water bottles with vodka getting drunk in the background, loud music, watching cringe-worthy displays of sixth graders awkwardly slow dancing with enough space between their stick-straight arms to stick two statues of Jesus? I’ll pass.” Middle school is weird and uncomfortable enough during the six hours he’s required to be there. Tim would rather not make himself suffer more.

She must be nervous about picking out a dress. Tim has heard enough complaints about how pretty Bette is that there’s no doubt Steph would be afraid about competing with the other blonde girl. Tim thinks it’s all stupid. Steph is beautiful. He’s spent the entirety of middle school boosting her self-esteem enough that he’s ready to take a baseball bat to anyone who tries to undo all the painstakingly long messages he’s sent her during her midnight freak-outs. Tim sure is glad he isn’t a popular kid. “I’m sure whatever dress you pick will look fantastic. Bette has nothing on you.”

Steph offers him a small smile. “Thanks, Timbo,” she says softly.

He returns to his book.

* * *

No amount of reading or denying the situation can get it out of his head. He’s only able to stand another hour in Steph’s house, and that’s just because it took an hour to eat the leftovers in the fridge, before his restlessness gets the best of him. Now that he’s had a day to digest the news, he might still feel ill but at least he isn’t ready to break down. His grief has melted into anxiety and his thoughts are filled with one person.

He mumbles some half-assed excuse about homework and starts his trek down the street. It’s seven pm and completely dark. But because Tim doesn’t use his brain when he’s upset and panicked, he doesn’t head home.

Tim runs like something is chasing him to work off some of his energy and with his speed it takes him thirty minutes to enter the Narrows. There’s this sense of gut-churning dread seeping into his bones but he trudges forward anyway, sticking to the shadows of the back alley routes Jay has taught him about until he reaches the familiar apartment complex. He darts down the halls like a game of lava until he reaches 512B and knocks softly, the _thump-thump_ ing of his knuckles sounding thunderous in the hallway despite the blare of the TV in one of the apartments behind him.

He isn’t quite expecting Jay to be in, but he’s pleasantly surprised when the door opens a crack, pulling the chain taut, and a familiar tuff of black bangs framing steel blue eyes peers out. Jay’s face is all apprehensive caution and frayed nerves until he registers who’s standing there. Tim glimpses a beaming grin before the door is quickly shut, there’s the sound of the chain being slid undone, and then Tim is being welcomed inside. Jay has all the locks back in order before Tim turns around to face him.

“S’up, Timbo?” Jay greets. Ever since the older boy read one of Steph’s text messages, Tim doesn’t think Jay has called him by his real name. It’s always Scrap, Timbo, Detective, Kid, or a variant of them.

“Hey,” says Tim, trying to force a smile, but Jay recognises it’s fake in an instant. Tim supposes two years, almost three, makes him a pretty easy read.

“What’s wrong?”

Two years may have made Tim an easier read, but it’s changed some of Jay, too. He’s not as twitchy anymore, none of his actions are uncertain, and he is infinitely more bold. Whereas Jay of seventh grade had trouble shaping his concerns into words, Jay of ninth doesn’t even bother, just seems rolls with whatever happens to come out of his mouth. He’s always been confident, but it’s a louder confidence now, and Tim is left trying to figure out where it all came from. Maybe it’s just another part of growing up (he hopes so. He sure could use some of that bravado). For all the volume, though, there’s something undoubtedly reserved about the older boy, and for all his laughter, there’s a fundamental component missing that Tim can’t seem to place.

All of it is evident in the way Jay holds himself now, especially as he sits down, his body posture open and displayed in a show that makes him seem bigger than he really is. Tim takes a seat on the couch beside him, clutching one of the pillows to his chest and curling his shoulders towards it.

“Scrap?” Jay asks again.

Tim doesn’t want to say it. He glances up. Jay’s face is blank, which might be odd for anyone else but Tim has since learned that the less emotion Jay shows, the more he’s feeling. Tim doesn’t have that skill.

“I--I’m moving,” he finally forces out, knuckles white with the grip he has on the pillow.

Jay is silent until Tim starts to feel himself choke up again (dammit, no, he’s so _sick_ of crying). “But you’ll still be able to hang out. I mean, you don’t exactly live here at the moment either.” Jay’s body jerks suddenly as he frantically struggles to sit up. “Wait, you’re...where? It’s in Gotham, right? You’re moving to somewhere else in Gotham?”

He sounds so freaked out that Tim rushes to console him, releasing his grip on his pillow, his mind momentarily distracted from his own emotional turmoil. “No! No, just the Diamond District. Still Gotham. Don’t worry.”

Jay’s eyes start to widen. “ _Diamond District?_ Do they even _have_ houses in the Diamond District? That’s a shopping center, isn’t it?”

“There are houses everywhere,” Tim mumbles into the pillow, though he isn’t entirely certain. He hadn’t given it much thought. He was too distraught over the fact that he’s moving to _the other side of Gotham._

“Shit, I don’t even have enough money to _look_ at the stuff over there…”

Tim finds it hard to believe that Jay hasn’t walked every street in Gotham. Then again, imagining Jay mingling with rich women in their shiny red stilettos, white cocktail dresses and bug-eyed sunglasses with his ratty jeans and torn sneakers makes for an interesting picture.

Walking from there to the Narrows could take hours, and Tim isn’t absolutely certain how many buses directly connect the two vastly different areas. He isn’t absolutely certain if any buses come to the Narrows at all.

“I don’t want to go.” He wouldn’t be able to stand it. “Rich people are so fake.”

Jay snorts. “ _You’re_ rich people.”

Oh god. “No. _I_ don’t flaunt my parents’ money like candy.” Is he really that rich?

Of course he is. He’s moving to the very district where the wives of billionaires go to throw their money away on multi-million dollar necklaces and rings. But all rich people are horrible, selfish Barbies, aren’t they? Jay is convinced that they are, at least. Oddly enough, he’s never treated Tim that way, despite claiming Tim has a reserved seat among them.

Some time passes before Jay asks tentatively, “You’re still gonna come ‘round, right?”

“Yeah,” says Tim, because that’s obvious, but… “But probably not as much.”

Jay doesn’t respond to that, just turns on the TV and sprawls himself backwards on the couch, occupying an entire corner on the opposite side of the furniture while Tim remains huddled up on the other edge. Both of them have their eyes stubbornly fixed to the television screen, but Tim can’t help but feel rapt attention to everything else around him, because he wants the same comfort from Jay that Steph attempted to give to him, but Jay no longer gives out free hugs and Tim has never known how to ask. He’s not much of a hugger. In fact, sometimes Steph’s casual touches still make him stiffen up. But Jay is different. His are rare and never forced, never pressured.

Tim never noticed when they stopped, but he craves them now. He finally allows himself to glance to the side at Jay, and Jay is perhaps looking too intently at the TV for it being in the middle of an action movie and not knowing what’s going on. There’s no way Jay can’t see Tim staring at him from his peripheral.

Both of his arms are draped over the back of the couch, his legs propped casually across the length of the cushions. Tim slides down the arm of the couch so that the curve of his neck is nestled comfortably, keeping the pillow crushed to his chest, and swings his feet up to join Jay’s. He feels Jay’s ankle press against his outer thigh and holds his breath without watching, waiting to see if Jay will move his legs, but all Jay does is jerk his head to look at Tim for the briefest second, Tim can feel the gaze burning into his neck, before turning back to face the TV.

It takes Tim a few minutes to relax, and when he does, he feels Jay’s legs press closer to his, but neither of them mention it. They resolutely do not look at each other.

Unlike the usual, they don’t fall asleep where they are. At least, Jay doesn’t. Tim can feel his eyes drooping without his permission when Jay’s legs shift, the first time in hours, and he gets off the couch to wave in front of Tim’s face. “Hey, Timbo,” he says. “Wanna take the bed? I can sleep here.”

Tim frowns. “I’m already here,” he mumbles.

“Not gonna feel good in the mornin’, trust me.”

Tim wants to say that they’ve slept in the same bed before. Many, many times. But he’s heard about how weird high schoolers can be, and maybe this is how they change, because it’s almost the end of Jay’s ninth grade year and he suddenly feels so distant. Tim hears himself muttering his thoughts before he can stop himself. “I don’t want to grow up.”

Tim doesn’t know if Jay hears or not. He clutches his pillow tighter, in case Jay is planning on taking it from him.

“Your loss,” Jay says before he walks away, and Tim barely registers the loss of warmth before he’s asleep.

When he jolts awake, it’s still dark. The TV is off and there’s the sound of drunken yelling outside of the window. The window isn’t open, which makes Tim unnerved at how thin the walls and how loud the screaming must be for it to wake him up. Then again, Tim is used to sleeping in a dead silent house, so the slightest noise is liable to stir him.

His feet touch the scratchy carpet when he hears the sound of a bottle smashing. Flinching, Tim stands unsteadily and blinks to adjust to the lack of light. It isn’t hard to remember where he is, especially since there aren’t usually angry drunks wandering around in the suburbs, and there’s only one place he could be sleeping in the city. He wraps the blanket that mysteriously appeared over him around his shoulders.

Without giving it much thought, driven by the sleepy intent for comfort (he can hear winter rain pattering against the glass, and that’s never been the warmest, particularly not in Gotham), Tim inches his way down the hall and into Jay’s bedroom. The boy is on his stomach, hand tucked under his pillow and lips slightly parted like they always are when he sleeps.

Tim slowly crawls onto the bed, holding his blanket like a cape and curling over the covers, drawing his knees up to his chin as he faces Jay, just narrowly avoiding the reach of his elbow. It’s probably warmer under the covers, but right then, he feels perfect where he is, the corner of the blanket drawn up to shield his nose from the biting air.

He stays perfectly still, watching the rise and fall of Jay’s chest, but Jay wakes up anyway from the bed’s initial disturbance. The older boy twitches with a groan and slowly, ever so slowly, cracks his drowsy eyes open. “Timbo?” he mumbles.

“Couch got cold,” Tim explains.

Jay gives a hum of acknowledgement, yawns, and closes his eyes again. “I dun’wanna gettup.”

“You don’t have to. We can share,” says Tim, tentatively. In this silent warm cocoon, the only light a streetlamp from the mouth of the alley reflecting off the brick wall that Jay’s window faces, Tim can’t find it in him to feel any sort of nervous energy. He’s drained.

Jay hums again, probably not fully hearing Tim.

“We used to do that,” Tim whispers. He almost doesn’t want to ask the next question because he’s not sure if he wants the answer, but… “Is it weird sleeping in the same bed as me?”

Jay opens his eyes. “Yeah. You’ll understand when y’get older. Best buds don’t sleep together. ‘Ts gay.” His words are so sluggish that they come to Tim in slow motion.

Best buds. Best friends. Tim is… “I’m your best friend?” He’s sort of amazed that those words are the first things to stick out from all that Jay said.

Jay takes a deep breath and blinks rapidly, yawning again and turning onto his side. Tim figures he’s trying to wake himself up better. “Uh-huh. ‘Course.”

Tim didn’t know that. There’s something pressing against his chest when he thinks about it, something incessant and engulfing. It takes him a minute to identify it. Pride.

The pride is overwhelmed by a sick, gut-lurching feeling he knows more intimately. Guilt.

Steph is his best friend. At least, she’s supposed to be. They’ve been friends for so long. They should automatically be best friends. Best friends always hang out with each other, share everything with each other, inseparable.

So why, when he learns something new, when he hears something funny, a joke or a story, reads something shocking, his first thought is to share it with Jay? Why is it Tim only hangs out with Steph when _she_ finds _him_ first?

Why is he here instead of with her?

“You’re my best friend, too,” Tim says softly, feeling like a traitor who has just taken a deep breath of fresh air.

Jay smiles at him, sleepy and gentle, as if being in the night means he’s forgotten everything that happens during the day. “Always wanted one’a those.”

Tim watches as his breaths even out and he drifts off to sleep once more. He feels himself following, but manages to take the extra pillow from the bed and one of the kicked away blankets before he’s out for the count.

He sleeps on the floor that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UGH. Teenage boys are so AWKWARD. I really don't feel like many fanfictions incorporate their awkwardness, though. I mean, have you ever seen four teenage boys have to sleep in the same two-bed hotel room? I have. One of them slept in the tub to avoid being in the same bed as another.
> 
> I am well aware that in the Google search image, WE was referred to as WayneTech and my excuse is that, though I can't remember jack for the same reason, knowing me I most likely made it when the sun was rising. Half the things I write during that time are some great content, I swear (after I basically rewrite it all in the morning because half of what I wrote wasn't actually English, but it's the thought that counts).
> 
> This story just simultaneously got a lot harder and a lot more fun to write (which I didn't think was possible). Also, updates might be slowing down from here on out, and will definitely be sluggish starting next week.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, we take something that might feel like a 'detour'. It's not. Though these next few chapters will very much feel like useless filler, as always, each scene has the mention of something important and is written for a reason.
> 
> Also, no, this story will not be Tim/Cass or anything like that. Cassandra may seem like a big character, considering she's present for the next few chapters in Jay's place, but she's rather minor in the big scheme of things. This story has a LOT MORE to go. I'm guessing around or over 20 chapters total. Probably closer to 30, given it took roughly 30,000 words to set up the story and actually start the main damn plot and I like to score my chapters between 4,000-6,000 words each (and never less than 3,200). I have a tendency to ramble, sue me.
> 
> I'm so excited to start getting into the meat of things. The story is going to be a little slow for the next few chapters but will pick up with a vengeance soon enough.
> 
> Enjoy!

“I came over to help you pack, but…”

“Yeah.”

It’s maybe the first time in a very long time that Steph and Tim stand awkwardly around each other in the front hallway, stiffly moving out of the way of the men with boxes clumsily nudging them aside in order to load the Drake possessions into the moving van outside.

Tim was expecting a week of depressingly packing up his room while attempting to juggle his school work amidst the clutter of things, like the ‘new girl in town’ movies depict. Instead, he comes home on the last day of winter break to find his room utterly empty, moments before running downstairs to face a devastated Steph swallowed in a crowd of burly men. He could have sworn that he had woken up that morning to a room full of his belongings, everything in their place. Now, Tim can’t pinpoint which of the nondescript boxes hold all the evidence of the last twelve years of his life.

His blood roars in his head as reality hits him like a freight train, but he stubbornly pushes his grief down so he can successfully face Steph and  _ not  _ burst into tears. It’s only been two weeks since he had learned the news, two weeks since he had told her. He thought he had more time.

“So, you’re leaving…”

“Tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

Steph moves numbly to the stairs and slowly sits down, staring at her knees. Tim joins her, watching the men shuffling by. “Then this is it?”

Tim doesn’t know what possesses him to put an arm around her shoulders, but it feels like the right thing to do. That doesn’t mean it feels natural, and he thinks that maybe he’s too tense. The air from the open door is cold and he’s sort of regretting his actions because he’d rather huddle into himself and preserve body heat, but Steph leans into him and he knows he can’t take it back now. She’s certainly well aware that Tim providing physical comfort is a rare phenomenon. “No. I’ll still visit.”

“But we won’t be able to walk home from school anymore. Or be in the same classes. Or eat lunch together. Or sneak into each other’s houses while the other is asleep. Or--”

“I know.” He really, really does, and doesn’t appreciate the reminders. He goes over everything that he’ll be missing every night before he goes to bed while memorising the designs of the plaster on his ceiling.

Suddenly, Steph turns and drapes her arms around his neck in a soul-crushing hug, causing the arm around her shoulders to wrap around her in a one-armed embrace as she tucks her face into his neck. “I don’t want you to go,” she says, her voice choked up and shaky.

Tim’s first thought is how cold his wet shirt is going to make him, and then feels kind of horrible for it. He’s trying his hardest not to think about how much he’s going to miss Steph. He’s absolutely certain she’s the only reason Tim has been able to make it through elementary and middle school. He’s going to be going to a  _ private  _ school in the middle of seventh grade year, when everyone already has their own friends, and he’s certainly not the type to go out of his way and make friends for himself. He’s going to be stranded and alone. Steph will be just fine. “I’m going to miss you,” he says, then curses himself because he’s getting teary-eyed and it’s totally Steph’s fault. “But you’ll be okay. You have a lot of friends. You don’t need me.”

“Yes I _do,”_ she insists, sniffling. “Of course I need you. Everyone else is...they’re just…” They don’t matter. That’s what she’s trying to say, isn’t it? The thought scares him, and Tim realises in one heart-stopping moment that he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to be the person that someone _needs._ He can’t be that person. He can’t be the one responsible for someone else. Tim tries to convince himself that that’s not what Steph means, clearly she doesn’t _need_ him like it’s life or death, she has her own life, but that life has Tim weaved into it and he isn’t sure how deeply. Tim isn’t _familiar_ with responsibility. He isn’t certain how it works.

He doesn’t know why it freaks him out so much.

“You’re my best friend,” she adds, so quiet he almost misses it.

His gut clenches painfully, and he squeezes his eyes shut tight as if that will make the nauseous feeling go away.

* * *

Tim can’t believe what he’s seeing.

As it turns out, the Drake’s new ‘house’ is actually circular penthouse nestled comfortably in the Diamond District, with floor to ceiling mirrors nearly circling the entire first floor, which winds all around a large protruding, gleaming staircase and half of its open balcony-esque second floor hallway. He’s currently standing in the middle of the living room that has 90% of furniture Tim has never seen before in his life, feeling like he’s just stepped into the Twilight Zone.

He had no idea he was this rich.

The website lists the different rooms of the penthouse, and Tim repeats them in his head like a mantra. Five bedrooms and two master, six bathrooms, a loft, a kitchen and breakfast bar, two living rooms, two entertainment rooms, and that’s not counting everything on the roof (which includes a  _ pool). _

His parents aren’t home when the men finish loading the last of the largest furniture and dumping the last of the boxes in front of the door. When they leave, the place is eerily empty, despite all the belongings that have somehow already been set up in the penthouse (Tim suspects they came with the place). He feels like he just stepped into a magazine, and breathes in shakily as he slowly lowers his backpack onto the hardwood. The zipper clicks audibly against the shiny surface.

This is it. He’s here. This is his.

Tim wants to feel excited, and he knows there’s a part of him that is. This place is...this is the stuff he only sees in those rich spy movies. He can already imagine fancy rich people twirling around with delicate flutes of champagne. He could pretend to be CIA, or MI6, like James Bond, artfully extracting information from his targets.

Tim used to be too young to attend most of the galas his parents were invited to, back when the company was a thriving opposition to Wayne Enterprises. He does remember a few, mainly snapshots of finger food and the cleanly shaven shins of twenty year old women on the arms of fifty year old men. None of it was particularly exciting, and he knows it’ll be a chore when the time comes for him to attend such events, but maybe there will be instances when his research will call for him to dig out his own information. He has to improve his social skills first, though. A lot.

With the thoughts of steam pressed suits and cool background music swirling around in his head, Tim picks his backpack up and swings it onto the white couch before wandering into the kitchen in search of food.

An hour and two hard boiled eggs later (apparently someone can sort out all the furniture but no one can be bothered to bring over something edible), Tim has brought all of the boxes labelled “child’s room” into what he has now dubbed his room.

Out of the five bedrooms, two of them are master. His parents seem to have picked theirs already, considering the location of his mother’s vanity, so Tim picks the other for himself. His parents were probably planning on making it into the guest room for those of the more expensive persuasion, but Tim feels vindictive in choosing it because he knows for a fact that he’s going to be the one sleeping in this new place the most and he should have the first and best pick.

The bathroom connected to it is possibly as big as his old room. It has its very own walk-in closet, a glass shower stall with its own bench, the biggest tub Tim has possibly ever seen, and a vanity that takes up an entire wall. Everything  _ sparkles  _ like someone just went and scrubbed over it all ten times before Tim got there. Standing in the middle of the room, feet buried in the cream shag rug, he not only feels small, but he  _ looks  _ even smaller than he is, judging by his reflection in the wall-length mirror. His navy blue shirt and black jeans feel altogether too dark and dirty for this engulfing hall of white.

The fact that he doesn’t think he has enough clothes to fill the walk-in closet doesn’t make it any better.

With the sudden urge to clean himself, as if being as spotless as this room will make him feel any more like he belongs, Tim cuts open all of the boxes with one of the kitchen knives he brought upstairs and locates the one with his clothes. The smell of lavender softener drifts off of one of his oldest pair of pajamas, and there’s a sense of relief when he sees the familiar black drawstrings that he hasn’t felt in days.

Once showered and dressed, hair still dripping water down his back, Tim sets to work. He begins with his clothes, sorting everything into the walk-in closet and he was absolutely right about there not being enough. Everything he has doesn’t even fill a quarter of it. But having everything unorganised and crammed to the side doesn’t sit well with him, so after he’s done putting fabric on hangars, he spends the next ten minutes deciding how he wants to sort his new closet and ends up separating by style. 

It’s not as if he has much style, so nearly all of his clothes are put into the far right corner, mentally dubbed ‘casual’, right alongside the section hidden by the door which can only be reached by walking into the closet and shutting the door behind him. He grabs the now empty moving box and puts it in that section under the hangars. This is where he folds his darkest and most torn clothing, most of which Jay has given him in an attempt to ‘prevent his sorry-ass from being mugged’ (Tim suspects it’s Jay’s own clothes, but Jay has time and time insisted that the clothes were too small for him anyway and to ‘just take them already, no don’t give me your money, I’m not your charity case dammit’).

Tim can’t take out his books, pens, pencils, and arts and crafts until he has something to put them on, so he wanders out into the hall and then each of the rooms to see if there’s anything anywhere that he can use. He finds a miniature empty bookshelf in what must be the theater room (otherwise accompanied only by a reclining couch, a beanbag chair, and a wall-length flat screen TV) and very, very slowly starts inching it into his room. It takes about thirty minutes, and he goes  back for the beanbag chair afterwards.

He finds a desk that thankfully has wheels in one of the small bedrooms, which could possibly hold future use as a study. It’s L-shaped and Tim knows it’ll fit nicely nestled in the corner of his room beside the bookshelf. This one, though the bedroom is further than the theater, is much easier to move due to the wheels. Even if he stubs his toe about a million times and has a heart-stopping moment where he thinks the desk won’t fit through his door, Tim has everything situated within fifteen minutes.

When he has three boxes worth of crafts and books sorted out, it’s dark. His parents still haven’t come home from when they left as the first movers were coming in, having made their way out after having thrown a distant comment about needing to get back to the office for a board meeting. He distinctly remembers there being a box for a video call from Japan tonight in his father’s calendar.

It’s only a passing thought. Truthfully, Tim doesn’t care all that much. His back still hurts from the bookshelf, and it turns out that unpacking takes a lot more energy than he expected because he’s out by the time he hits the bed.

* * *

A week passes in a blur and before Tim knows it, he’s walking through the front doors of his new school feeling like an ant because everyone in it is way too  _ tall. _

Tim has done enough research that he’s well aware of the fact that this private school provides education for everyone from sixth to twelfth grade. At first, Tim had wondered how any place could fit that many students. Teachers had to stuff thirty kids per class in his last school. He should have known better. Not only does the school look more like a university than anything else -- there are hardly any students.

No, that’s not right. For a private school, there are quite a lot. But the minimum requirement for students per class is six, and that really says something.

The high schoolers tower over him and he wants to run and hide so badly that he just stands there on the curb of the drop-off area, frozen, his maid already having pulled out behind him long ago (because apparently this school is too cool for buses).

Tim had memorised the school map the night before to calm his nerves and he tries to remember it now as he makes his way to his locker. Thankfully he ends up turning the correct left and locates it without much of a problem, beside the fact that his scrambling anxiety is making him feel like everyone who gives him a passing glance is going to eat him alive.

He tries to open his locker but can’t do it, can’t figure out how to do it because he never even used his locker at his last school because everything was so close together and he never had  _ to buy this many textbooks.  _ His panic at being thrown into an unknown situation and already encountering a difficulty causes him to just sit there and stare at the offending lock until someone jostling his backpack snaps him out of his daze. Tim spends about another minute working up the courage to ask someone and turns to his right and opens his mouth--

Only to be faced with a tall, militaristic… man (how is this person still young enough for school?) who has to be at least 6 ft opening the locker beside him.

Tim slowly turns away again.

He knows he has to get moving when the hall behind him starts to clear. The man has already left, and the locker across from the one he had been opening is being rifled through by an Asian girl with short-cut black hair who doesn’t look much older than Tim. Relieved by the significantly less intimidating figure, Tim gathers all the courage he has left in his scrawny body and takes in a deep breath. “Uh, excuse me?”

The girl doesn’t look up. Feeling embarrassed, Tim moves closer to her, his hand hovering over her shoulder. “Hello?”

She freezes, then slowly moves her head to stare at him with her dark eyes after having darted them around the rest of the hall, as if there could be anyone else that Tim could be talking to.

Feeling supremely awkward, Tim snatches away his hand and shoves it so deep in his uniform pants pockets that he’s not entirely sure he’ll ever get it back. “Sorry, uh, I’m Tim, I’m new and I can’t figure out my locker and I was wondering if you could help me?”

She just stares at him again. Tim feels stupid for ever taking that stare as not intimidating.

Also, people are staring at him as they walk by. They were already staring at him (with a school as small as this, there’s no doubt that everyone will recognise a new face) plenty, but this is… This is different. And unnerving. Like there’s a piece of information he isn’t privy to, something important that he’s missing.

“Here, I can help,” says another voice, and Tim turns away from the Asian girl to see a blonde boy holding a Government and Politics textbook leaning against the lockers. “Which one’s yours?”

After Tim joins him, gestures to his locker and tells him the combination, he looks back over his shoulder to see the girl walking away.

“That’s Cassandra Cain. Don’t try talking to her,” the boy says as he works on the second number. Tim frowns at him.

“Why not?” he asks, assuming he’s referring to the girl, and it comes out a little defensive but he can’t help it. He takes the words automatically as bullying, as rude, but there’s a different lilt to the other boy’s voice. The way he phrased it. Don’t  _ try  _ talking to her, like a wise piece of advice he’s giving as a favour and Tim is more baffled than ruffled.

“Because she won’t answer. She  _ can’t  _ answer.” The other boy is turning the third lock.

Tim doesn’t get it. “What?”

The locker is opened and the boy gives him a nonchalant shrug. “Well, not to sound mean and all, but she’s retarded. Like, actually retarded. Special needs. She can’t speak, and she’s severely dyslexic. Something wrong with her brain since birth. A little freaky. I’m not totally sure she can even understand people.”

Tim isn’t comfortable with calling anyone retarded. Especially since that’s used as a term more for those on the autistic scale, and being mute or dyslexic doesn’t normally qualify as that. “Wait, then how does she go to school here?”

He doesn’t know why it’s the first thought to pop into his mind. She could be from a very influential family, after all. Anyone can get anywhere with the right amount of money. But he also knows from the internet that this school is prized and acclaimed as one of the best schools in all of Gotham, and schools like that aren’t known for keeping around those with special needs.

“Dude, you should see her in like, any sport,” the other boy says sagely as he stands up. “Give her a quick run down of any game and she will  _ dominate  _ the court. Her family isn’t even rich, I heard. I heard she doesn’t even  _ have  _ a family. Can’t read or write her own name for shit, but those athletic scholarships go for miles.”

“Oh,” is all Tim knows how to say as he quickly stuffs his backpack into his locker. When he shuts it again, the boy is still standing there. To Tim’s surprise, he sticks a hand out.

“I’m Bernard Dowd,” he greets enthusiastically.

“Uh, Tim. I mean, Tim Drake,” Tim responds, taking the firm handshake and almost regretting it with how hard Bernard squeezes.

“Yeah, I know,” Bernard says, and judging by the look on Tim’s face, he quickly realises how odd that sounds. “I mean, everyone knows. We only have a few slots in sixth and ninth grade for new students. The only way anyone comes in during any of the other years, especially in the  _ middle,  _ is either because someone else dropped out, you’ve got an IQ to match Einstein, or you paid your way in with extra. In other words, congrats, you’re the only new kid. You don’t post embarrassing stuff on your Facebook, right? Because if you have, everyone here that has searched you up and has probably already seen it.”

Tim kind of wants to shrink into himself. So much for going through his day unnoticed. “I...no, I don’t got any social media.”

“Aw, really? Why not?”

“No point. Nothing to put on it,” or any friends to add. Tim has a tumblr, but considering he uses it to surf for rumours or possible leads on Batman and Robin instead of actually posting anything, he figures it isn’t worth mentioning.

Bernard shrugs. “Well, if you ever get an Insta or something, let me know. I have everything. So, what class do you have next?”

* * *

“Where do you come from?” Bernard asks the next day as he leads Tim to his lunch table. Tim met the people Bernard sits with the day before and sincerely does not want to do it again. They act like Tim is the most fascinating person they have ever met. Bernard had explained that it’s always exciting when there’s a new kid because the ‘same old faces’ get boring, but Tim just wants to sink into the shadows and disappear. Especially if it means he’ll get some of his homework done before going home. He already feels like he won’t ever catch up.

“Gotham?” Tim asks uncertainly, sliding onto the very end of the table next to a girl Bernard had introduced yesterday as Ariana. She turns her attention onto their conversation, having formerly not been engaged in one.

“Well, what part?” Bernard presses. “Your parents own Drake International, right? Didn’t that company have a hard time a few years ago?”

When Tim just stares, Ariana pipes in with, “He wants to go into business.”

“What? It’s common knowledge,” Bernard insists.

“Not for a twelve year old.”

“You’re thirteen! That’s not much older.” He lowers his voice to stage whisper to Tim: “Eighth graders are so overrated.”

Tim offers a small, tense smile.

“Anyway, you didn’t answer me.”

“Uh, I’m from Robbinsville.”

“Seriously?” Bernard says, surprised. “That’s a good area.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

But Bernard is still staring and Tim is getting uncomfortable. Ariana seems exasperated. “Sorry, you just don’t sound like it.”

That causes Tim to narrow his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Sensing his defensive stance, Bernard throws his palms up. “Nothing bad! It’s just surprising. You don’t talk like the rest of us. Everyone here talks like they’re meeting business associates, you know? And it’s not too far from the truth. Most of us will probably end up being business partners in the future. But you’re kind of...I don’t know how to say it. I guess you use more slang than the rest of us?”

“You also don’t introduce yourself like James Bond,” Ariana assists, grinning. “Last names are more important than first names, here. They tell everyone who you are, who your friends are, where you are in the world and how they should treat you. But you’re just Tim.”

Just Tim. He can’t tell if that’s an insult or not.

“Well...I went to public school?”

Ariana’s eyebrows rise into her hairline. Bernard looks suddenly fascinated. “I’ve never been to public. What is middle school like? Is it like in the movies?”

“I’ve been to public,” Ariana says.

“Yeah, for elementary school. Doesn’t count. Wait, you have Homecoming and stuff, right?”

Tim tries to keep track of the sudden flood of questions. “Only high schoolers do. There’s no Homecoming here?”

“There’s no football here,” Bernard huffs, like it’s a huge disadvantage. Tim is sort of relieved. “Everyone only cares about soccer and lacrosse. So no Homecoming.”

“I’ve heard it’s not that cool, anyway.”

The conversation spirals from there, and Tim manages to slowly inch out of it stealthily enough that Bernard and Ariana end up talking animatedly to each other about the Olympics without feeling the need to include Tim. He finishes his food as quickly as he can and stands up, causing Ariana to pause in her mad scroll through her tumblr dash attempting to find some post to show Bernard. “Hey, if it’s okay with you guys, I’m just gonna head to the library.”

Bernard looks put out but Ariana just smiles. “Sure. Do you remember where it is?”

“Yeah. I’ll see ya later.”

“Bye!”

The library is located in Building A, but this school’s classes operates in blocks and the lunch block is an hour long so Tim has time. Almost 45 minutes time, actually. He still tries to make his journey there across the short field as swift as possible, not stopping to take in the scenery even though it’s quite the view (one entirely secluded from the city, because the campus is encircled in a grove of trees that shuts out the street). The hefty doors are just barely on the side of too heavy for Tim to yank open.

The inside is well lit and absolutely massive. He could get lost here, and if there weren’t a bell, he would. It’s his second day and Tim is already contemplating staying after school just to relax. It’s not like he has anything to do at the penthouse, anyway. The only problem he has is the transportation, because the maid only shows up to drive Tim to and from school as well as bring dinner and clean. He’s definitely looking into the public transport system when he gets home.

The area where the books are actually kept, the main room, is lit in every corner, but there’s a small seating area in a space that juts away from the main room which is only lit by warm toned lamps. It’s a cozy circular side room littered in couches and beanbags. Tim could live there (maybe he could turn one of the penthouse’s guest rooms into a library before his parents notice?).

Tim wants to do his homework in the seating area, but there are already a few people in there and he doesn’t want to possibly disturb them. Instead, he heads for a long table in the back of the main room next to the computer lab. But when he reaches the table and slowly begins to pull out a seat, he realises he isn’t quite alone at this table as he thought.

On the ground, hidden from view by the table, is Cassandra Cain. There’s a chess set with her, way in the corner of the room and accompanied by a couch. It’s one of those large-piece sets that are too big to fit on a table and instead have to be on the ground. This one isn’t as big as some of the ones Tim has seen in shopping malls, just the right size to be able to move the pieces from a single position if a person sits on their knees. Each piece is beautifully crafted from warm brown and creamy white wood.

And she’s playing against herself.

Tim is still poised halfway between pulling out his chair, examining the intricate way in which her board is set up and unaware of his awkwardly standing position. It’s possibly the most complicated set-up he’s ever seen. The longer he stares, the more exits and strategies he finds that are utterly blocked off. They’re not blocked off in simple, your-piece-will-be-taken-if-you-make-this-move ways, either. It feels like every move is liable to set off a chain reaction. Tim has already spotted three chain reactions ending in the white queen being taken, and he hasn’t even looked at the black pieces yet.

She put herself at a standstill.

Tim can’t help but mentally remark how utterly boring and stupidly  _ difficult  _ that sounds.

It takes a minute, but eventually Tim realises that Cassandra’s frozen posture isn’t due to being deep in thought -- it’s due to the fact that she can tell Tim is staring. She’s not looking at him, but she’s stiff and her eyes are focused blankly on the floor, just slightly biting her lip, no longer engaged in her game and Tim immediately feels terrible for intruding.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t-- I didn’t mean to bother you,” he apologises. “I can move if you want?”

She doesn’t say anything.

Of course she doesn’t say anything. Tim feels like an idiot. “Well, I mean, nod if you want me to leave, shake your head if you don’t.”

She shrugs. Tim can’t help but to make a sarcastic comment. “Oh. Great. That’s straightforward.” But Tim’s words only seem to confuse her. He pulls his chair out the rest of the way and sits down in it cautiously, but instead of turning to start his homework, he keeps facing her. He begins slowly. “You know, I don’t get why people don’t seem to talk to you. Sure, you can’t answer, but it doesn’t mean you can’t understand.”

Tim frowns as a thought comes to him. The premise of a conversation is to be two-sided. One-sided conversations are just...well, they’re just orders.

“Anyway, that looks like a pretty complicated chess game. Do you play chess a lot?”

Cassandra finally turns to look at him, and when she does, it’s wary. As if she’s searching for an ulterior motive. It’s wary and… calculating. Evaluating. Slowly, she nods.

“Are you good?”

Another nod.

“I’m pretty good, too. At least, I like to think I am. But I never have anyone to play with.” Silence. Tim isn’t meeting Cassandra’s gaze anymore. Instead, he’s staring at the white side of the board, the side that is currently unoccupied. “Could I play with you?”

Calculating. Evaluating. Examining. Analysing. Maybe this is why people feel unnerved or frustrated around her. Yet, it doesn’t make Tim feel anything except intrigued.

A nod.

Tim smiles as he settles onto the opposite end of the board and begins resetting the pieces. “Cool. I’m Tim, by the way.” Maybe his increase in confidence is due to how Cassandra can’t answer. He’s quiet with friends because the people he’s always with are loud enough to fill the silence on their own. This time, that isn’t the case. He’s almost done setting the board when a thought occurs to him, one spurred on by Ariana’s earlier remark about the way Tim introduces himself. “Do you prefer Cassandra or Cain or a nickname? Nod for Cassandra, shake your head for Cain, thumbs up for nickname.”

Something Tim said must be funny, because Cassandra smiles a soft, barely there smile, the first obvious expression to appear on her face, followed by a very small thumbs up.

“Cass or Cassie? I’m guessing you know the drill. Nod for first, shake for second.”

A shrug.

“Oh, cool, didn’t know that was an option. Learn something new every day.”

The smile on her face grows larger. Tim considers it a victory, even after she kicks his ass at the game in two minutes flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interesting...Tim uses slang, speaks much more casually than everyone else, swears a bit more and has a bolder, much more sarcastic personality...I wonder where he got that from? But, maybe he’s right. Maybe it’s because he went to public school. Who knows?
> 
> (Tim's penthouse was inspired by Pharrell William's penthouse: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-3340445/Pharrell-Williams-lists-Miami-penthouse-10-9million-complete-Family-Guy-art-framed-copy-interview-Michael-Jackson-walls.html . The upstairs is certainly much bigger, though).


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School starts tomorrow, so I decided to give a last update before I become prisoner to late night library study sessions. Here's to getting an education!
> 
> To any Bernard lovers out there, I probably butchered him, but I needed a conspirator and he's the closest thing I've got. Also, Tim discovers for the first time that he has the ability to stand up for others/himself. Ah, blessed character development. I really do feel bad for the kid. Just not enough to ease his suffering. After all, what's plot without someone getting the short stick?
> 
> Enjoy!

Tim doesn’t know how Bernard convinced him that he would help him with his homework, but Tim shouldn’t have fallen for it. 

He’s only known Bernard and Ariana for a handful of weeks now, yet he feels like he’s known them for years. He can already predict how they’re going to respond to anything he says, and when Bernard says, ‘You can do it in the library after school with me’ in response to Tim saying ‘I can’t hang out because of homework’, it’s code for ‘I’m not actually going to help you. You can do your work, but I’m using you for companionship because I need someone to listen to my conspiracy theories and Ariana has already learned how to tune me out’.

While Tim is trying to concentrate on catching up ( _ still)  _ with his science homework, Bernard is more interested in reading the articles on the dynamic duo’s latest exploits. The irony of the situation is not lost on Tim. Ariana is lounging in a chair reading  _ Fahrenheit 451,  _ an assigned reading for her year.

“Okay, but I’m telling you, Batman  _ is  _ the government,” Bernard says.

And so it begins. Three, two…

“Last year you tried telling me the government is kidnapping clinically insane criminals and forcing them to do their dirty work,” says Ariana.

Tim takes out his phone with a sigh, opening up a new text message for Steph.

 

 

Well, so much for that.

“That is completely plausible--”

“Your main source was a tumblr post.”

“The blogger was from DC! And I’m serious about this. Just think about it: Batman stays here, with us regular people, while all his buddies are out fighting aliens--”

“Because his buddies  _ are  _ aliens--”

“--He’s focused completely on just one city that is known for slipping into occasional anarchy, and constantly assists the government with the harder cases rather than calling people who could help a lot more, like  _ Superman.  _ I’ve never seen Superman in Gotham. Once. Or any of the other Leaguers. Do you know who else is known for refusing League assistance? The government. I’m telling you, they have  _ contingency  _ plans--"

“Right, because killing our one line of defense against the rest of the galaxy makes sense.”

“They hate the Justice League! The JL works outside of the influence of the government. The government can’t control them. It’s like one of those literary archetypes you’re so fond of. The JL, in this case, represents the people, and the government is the system. They’re a loose thread and I swear to you, the government is trying to cut that thread off.”

“You just said you think Batman  _ is  _ the government. If he’s the government, why does he work for the League?”

“Inside man. He’s a mole. They’ve had moles before.”

“Didn’t Batman create the Justice League?”

“No, that was Superman.”

“Are you sure? Because--”

“Oh my god,” Tim finally exclaims, successfully interrupting their banter. He’s been listening the entire time for the simple fact that he can’t turn his brain off. “I’ve been trying to read this problem for three minutes and it won’t stick because you guys  _ won’t shut up.” _

“Sorry, Timmy,” Bernard apologises sheepishly, turning back to his article.

“It’s Tim,” Tim corrects automatically. Bernard doesn’t grace him with an answer. Ariana returns to her book.

The peace lasts for thirty whole, precious minutes.

“Genetic experimentation,” states Bernard,

Ariana groans. Tim wants to echo her sentiment.

“What, you guys don’t wonder about that stuff? I do.”

“We know  _ you  _ do.”

“How else do you think all the heroes got their freaky powers? Not all of them are aliens! I bet there’s someone messing around with that stuff and I personally think people should be more aware of it. Maybe there’s someone doing illegal genetic experimentation in Gotham. Maybe it’s not even illegal. Maybe it’s the gover--”

“I’m out,” Tim declares finally, stuffing his laptop into his backpack and rising from the desk. There’s only so much he can take.

“What? How come?” Bernard protests, snapping to attention.

“Because he wants to do his work, dimwit.”

“He can do his work here. Can’t you, Timmy?”

“No,” Tim deadpans.

Ariana stretches from her seat on the chair. “I should really go, too, before my dad starts wondering where I am.”

“What, you have a curfew?” Bernard pouts, turning all the way around in his computer chair.

“Sorry for not being too excited about walking Gotham streets alone late at night.”

“Aren’t you Russians supposed to be rebellious?” teases Bernard.

“God, just  _ kiss  _ already or something,” Tim mutters as he walks out of the reading lounge.

When he makes it outside, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t have to deal with crazy conspiracy theories if he were hanging out with Jay. A pang of homesickness hits Tim in the chest when he remembers that he’s so much further away from the other boy than before. It shouldn’t be that much of a problem. There’s a direct bus from here to Newtown, according to the Public Gotham Transit website, a stop right at the edge of the Narrows, but there’s a different  _ feeling  _ that comes from knowing he needs to ride a bus rather than knowing he can just walk to Jay. A sense of planning, like Tim needs to  _ schedule  _ his visits rather than just getting up and leaving whenever he feels like it.

Granted, visits have almost always been confined to weekends during the school year, often with many weeks in between, but Tim can’t remember the last time he’s been without him for so long. Between the packing, the moving, and the new school, it’s already been almost two months since he last saw the older boy.

Tomorrow. He’ll see Jay tomorrow.

Until Tim finds out that there’s a history project he totally forgot about. He doesn’t see him tomorrow.

He tries that weekend, but the school is volunteering for the local orphanage and Ariana is quick to harass Tim into helping out.

Everyone takes their midterms the next week. Tim doesn’t because he’s late, but he still has to take some form of test because his middle school didn’t even  _ have  _ midterms and things that don’t exist can’t transfer. He ends up studying harder than he’s ever had before because he has no idea what the material is on, spending two more weeks on his own before a teacher happens to remember his curriculum was different and helps him out, giving him an extension as well as a study guide packet.

It’s with the intentions of starting and finishing that study guide that takes Tim into the library over three months after he’s moved, heading towards his now usual seat beside Cassie’s corner on autopilot. They had taken to gravitating there until it became habitual, and now Tim makes it a tradition to play at least one game with the mute girl every time he doesn’t have work he can’t finish at home.

They used to play every time Tim came into the library, except on top of playing for fun, Tim realised a few days in that Cass was actually trying to  _ teach  _ him in her own way, shooting him knowing looks for specific moves, or demonstrating possible outcomes, even if it meant giving herself away, using their discarded pieces. Tim takes more and more time thinking thoroughly through each move now, and it’s not uncommon for their games to not finish by the time the lunch block does.

When he reaches his seat, however, he finds Cass already sitting there, a wide-ruled journal in front of her. Beside her is a woman Tim has never seen before with a pencil in her hands. “Ah, ah, ah,” the plump brunette woman is repeating. “Aaah. See how my lips kind of smile when I do that? If you let the corners of your lips drop, that becomes aw. Smile, and it’s ah. Please copy me.”

Cass repeats what the woman is doing, but Tim can see that it doesn’t actually stick. It doesn’t look as if the woman sees the same thing as he does.

“Okay, that’s very good. Here’s a list of a few words with their pronunciations. All of them have ah. Remember, ah, not aw. Practice writing those and shaping them with your mouth. Listen closely when other people say them. I’ll see how you’re doing in our next session, alright?”

The woman starts to rise, and Tim is leaning forward before he even has the chance to think his actions through. “What are you doing?” he asks, and he hopes he sounds more curious than accusatory.

The woman startles before offering a polite smile. “I’m sorry, but this is a private session.”

Yes, it is a private session. Tim knows that. He’s not stupid enough to let his emotions-- “And she’s my friend.” Or not. He’s seconds away from adding so much more sass and sarcasm that Tim can’t even imagine what would happen if he says the words that he really wants to say.

She looks surprised, as if she can’t fathom Cass having friends, and that only makes Tim feel more restless. Her smile becomes significantly more strained. “I don’t know if you were aware, but your friend here is dyslexic. I’m her tutor.”

“Do you often teach dyslexic kids?”

“Excuse me?” she asks, dropping the smile altogether.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as rude. I just wanted to know what the name of the method you were using to teach Cass her letters is?”

Neither Cass nor the woman look like they know how to feel about the apparently odd line of questioning from a normally very quiet boy. “Phonetic,” she answers cautiously. “I’m teaching her the relation of letters to sounds more thoroughly so that she can have an easier time translating the sounds of words into words on paper. Now, if you’re done, I want you to tell me what your name--”

“You’re teaching her the relation of the sounds of letters to written letters. You’re teaching her how to form the letters in her mouth. You’re teaching her how to  _ sound out  _ words in order to write them, as they sound.”

The woman is growing more irritable by the moment, especially as it becomes shockingly apparent that she’s being treated as the fool. “Young man--”

“You do realise  _ that she can’t speak, right?” _

Tim is almost fascinated by how red her puffy cheeks have become. “Yes,” she snaps. “I am perfectly aware of the fact that Cassandra is mute. However, while she can’t speak, she can learn to form the words in her mouth and record them that way.”

“Except for the fact that she can’t form words in her mouth, because she doesn’t know how to, because she’s never done it before, because she has never been able to speak, which means  _ she does not know how words are supposed to be shaped.” _

And this possibly has to be the first time Tim has ever spoken up so blatantly against authority. Granted, he’s not challenging her -- outwardly, at least -- but he is certainly  _ patronising  _ her and it doesn’t sound so bad as long as he is specifically not thinking about that particular fact. Briefly, Tim wonders who he got this streak of letting his anger control his words from -- Steph or Jay.

“Now you listen here, mister,” the flustered, enraged, puffy tutor exclaims, leaning over the table to wave her finger in his face. “Never before has Cassandra ever responded positively to tutoring. This method is so far the best chance and option she has. She is  _ fourteen  _ years old and has yet to prove that she can write a single, simple sentence. A girl with no language like herself will  _ never  _ survive in this world until she can learn to pick up the pace with the rest of her peers.”

Tim hasn’t even realised that he’s raised his voice. “She’s  _ mute,  _ not  _ deaf.  _ And she’s standing right there. If that’s your view on all of your students, then I suggest you quit your job, because your so-called method is  _ shit.” _

The tutor gapes at him, as if she can’t believe the audacity, and Tim can’t quite believe it either. He feels a pit of red hot dread swim nauseatingly in his stomach even as he continues to stare her down.

This is the first time he has ever sworn in front of an adult. Tim can’t even remember the last time he ever swore outside of his own head. Not only has he just sworn in front of an adult, he swore  _ at  _ an adult. An adult who is more than likely a staff member. At a very prestigious private school. A private school which he is a new student of. And which now probably considers him a delinquent.

Out of who influenced Tim the most this time around, Steph or Jay, Tim is going to put his money on Jay. He needs to remember to either slap or hug Jay the next time he sees him, depending on how this new scenario turns out.

It already doesn’t seem good. The tutor marches around the table and grabs him roughly by the upper arm, declaring that he is going straight to the headmaster’s office and boy oh boy he better be prepared. Tim casts a quick glance at Cass, not having looked at her since he started reprimanding a woman at least thirty years older than himself, expecting her to look shocked or afraid and ready to mouth an apology.

He isn’t expecting the  _ grin. _

Jay’s lucky this time, Tim thinks. It seems like it’s going to be a hug scenario after all.

* * *

As it turns out, Tim’s parents are home the one time he gets in trouble. It’s not fair.

He knows he’s sulking as his father pulls away from the parking lot. He can feel the disapproval of his parents permeating the air, but they don’t say anything and that only makes things worse because the tense atmosphere is making Tim want to jump out of the car.

The headmaster had been lenient, considering it was Tim’s first offense (and his mother’s excuse was ‘he’s from public school’, as if it’s something to be ashamed of, and that makes Tim want to scream because he’s not suffering some side effect of being surrounded by rebellious delinquents, he was standing up for his friend’s education). Amidst all of the headmaster’s lecturing, the only thing Tim has learned is that although he doesn’t regret his message, he should have worded it better so that while the next person will know it’s a reprimand, they won’t be able to prove it. Tim was let off the hook with a warning, as well as being excused from the rest of the school day.

A few years ago, Tim knows he would have been meekly obedient and never thought about committing a wrongdoing again. But now he knows better. He knows he hasn’t committed any wrongdoing, other than disrespecting an adult. In his opinion, that adult deserves to get reality slapped in her face, because she’s trying to use speech therapy to help dyslexia for a girl who can’t speak and every time he thinks about it he gets frustrated, because it’s like  _ no one is even trying  _ to help her correctly.

“This will  _ not  _ happen again. You were lucky and got off with a warning, but we never want to ever get a call like that again, understood?” His mother finally speaks as Tim is about to open the car door. They’ve reached the parking lot for the hotel where they had bought the two upper floors consisting of the penthouse. He only nods and she lets him go.

He’s already in the penthouse by the time his parents get there. Tim isn’t sure how long they’re going to be there, and he knows he should head upstairs, especially in the face of their disapproval, but he feels something odd pulling him to stay downstairs with them. The clack of his mother’s heels against the hardwood sounds nice as opposed to the common silence of the penthouse.

Tim sits back on the long white couch, drawing his knees up so that he can rest his graph paper spiral on them as a surface and start his math homework. He can hear the background chatter of his parents talking in the kitchen and before he knows it, he’s made it through half a page faster than he normally does.

“Huh, where’s all the food?” his mother calls. She closes the fridge. “Tim?”

“Yeah?” Tim answers, quickly sitting up.

“Did you drink all the milk?”

“Yeah.” He has a strange aversion to water when he can help it, and milk was the only thing left until he drank the last of it last night. “The orange juice ran out a few days ago.” The soda was gone long before that.

“We can just eat out again,” his father says to his mother. She hums in acknowledgement.

“Tim? Are you coming?”

Tim frowns down at the step-by-step diagram of how to how to multiply polynomials on his page. The new unit they’re going over in class requires the knowledge, but Tim hadn’t been taught it in his public school. The lesson was supposed to come in the middle of the year, while it’s the first thing taught at his new school. It feels like he’s learning less of a new curriculum and more of just having things thrown out of order. “Where?”

“Bruce Wayne is hosting an event at Wayne Manor to celebrate his new ward,” she says, and he wants to. He wants to, even if the thought of being stuck in a stuffy suit surrounded by stuffy socialites isn’t a pleasant one, but...polynomials. He needs to get these polynomials down by tomorrow.

Saying no physically pains him. His parents don’t seem too put out by it, and Tim doesn’t know if he’s relieved that he hasn’t caused them to disapprove of him even more or...or something else.

When they go upstairs, he picks up his things and follows them, leaving his bedroom door open and sitting on his bed to listen to them exchange comments every once in a while as they get ready. They left their own door open, too. He can hear his father start the water in their bathroom, and his mother’s ringtone when someone calls her. He doesn’t pay attention to what she’s idly saying, instead he uses her chatter as a pleasant backdrop as he imagines what colour eyeshadow she’s putting on, as he imagines the smooth way she applies her lip liner, as he imagines the tie his father is tying until he can hear his mother hang up in order to help him because he can’t quite center it.

When Tim hears that they’re ready to go, he peers out of his bedroom because he wants to see which tie his father is wearing, if it’s the blue one he likes the most, or how his mother applied her eyeliner. It is the blue one, to match the black and blue dress his mother is wearing. Her eyeliner is winged.

“Bye, honey,” his mother calls as they walk downstairs. Tim doesn’t answer because he knows they’re no longer paying attention.

When the door shuts, he waits a moment before opening his textbook again. Each turn of the page rustles loudly in the quiet penthouse.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT HAS BEEN A MONTH. I am so, so sorry. To be fair, I did warn everyone. But I refuse to abandon this story.
> 
> I intended to have more included in this chapter, but I drag things out way too much so that didn't happen. So, FINALLY, the ball will get rolling NEXT chapter! I'm pretty sure I've said that a lot, but I promise there isn't a single thing I could possibly write about for next chapter that would continue to postpone the plot.
> 
> The reason for my absence is mainly because A) college student and B) I was writing other fanfiction. See my profile for the two fics I've added! They'll both be put on the back burner until the end of November.
> 
> NOTE: THERE IS AN EASTER BUNNY IN THIS CHAPTER. It's something very important to what happens later in the story -- or, at least, important FORESHADOWING. You don't need to catch it to understand the story, but if you do catch it, you might realise a few things a little sooner... c:
> 
> Now, without further ado, please enjoy the new chapter!

Cass is the one to seek Tim out the next day, running after him when he closes his locker and leaves for his first class earlier than usual. She’s never gone out of her way to approach Tim before, probably due to her limited exposure to people in general making her shy, but he knows it’s her when someone taps on his shoulder without calling his name.

Also, the stares of everyone around him is a clue.

“Hey, Cass,” he says, turning to face her. Seeing her is somewhat of a relief. She’s an easy presence to be around with the lack of expectations to hold a conversation or be entertaining. They can either sit or stand in silence, simply enjoying each other’s company, or Tim can rant about something that’s on his mind and she’ll listen intently, but Tim never feels like she’s pushing him to do something or be a certain way in the way that he feels with Bernard or Ariana or his parents.

It’s the exact thing Tim needs right now because there’s no doubt in his mind that the reason people keep whispering around him is due to the events of yesterday. In a student body this small, rumours must spread like wildfire, and he wasn’t exactly being quiet in the library (being dragged across the field by his arm probably didn’t help either).

Cass smiles softly in greeting and falls in step beside him. Tim takes the clue and begins walking towards his class again.

Stares and whispers follow them. Tim tries to pretend they don't exist. He's kind of starting to get used to it.

Eventually, she stops him in the middle of the next hallway, which Tim finds odd until he turns to face her and realises that she must have wanted to stop here because they’re standing by a piece of paper taped to the wall advocating out-of-season basketball practice that is currently holding her attention. She smiles at him to gain his focus, points to the word basketball, taps on the back of her wrist, and then positions her two hands so that her wrists are touching each other and forming a right angle. Tim hasn’t asked if she knows sign language yet, but it would be a useless question for him because he doesn’t know sign language and wouldn’t be able to communicate that way, but they’ve been interacting with their makeshift form of charades for long enough that he can tell what she’s trying to say. “Basketball at 3pm?” he asks.

She nods and points to herself. “You’re playing basketball at 3pm?”

With another nod, she points to him and then gestures towards the gym building that Tim can see through the window. “You have basketball practice at 3pm and you want me to come?”

Cass drops her hands and offers him a sheepish smile. He gives her a bigger one in return. “Sure, I’m down. Let me guess, you’re going to win?”

She gives a modest shrug to go with her sheepish expression and Tim snorts.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, I have to know, did you  _ actually--”  _

“Yes,” says Tim automatically because he knows exactly what Bernard is going to ask and has known it all day.

“That… That takes a lot courage. And a little bit of stupidity,” Bernard replies, although Tim can tell that he wants to say a lot more. He waits it out, which isn’t hard when he’s concentrating on picking out what he wants from the salad bar, until the other boy breaks. “So… You and Cain, eh?”

“Are friends, yes.” He picks up a kiwi.

“How?” Bernard presses, leaning forward like it’s so impossible to believe. “She’s special needs. She can’t communicate. How do you have a conversation? How do you even ask what her favourite colour is? Or ask if she wants to hang out? Or--”

“I just ask,” Tim snaps, so close to the end of his rope because why is it an unfathomable notion for Cass to have friends? “If she wants to hang out, then she nods. If she doesn’t, she shakes her head. Because she can do that. Because she has a brain.” He doesn’t mean to glare at Bernard, exactly, but if he does then it’s totally justified.

“Okay, okay, that’s true. But isn’t it, you know, awkward? I mean, you have to be the one talking all the time. She just sits there and stares at you. It’s  _ weird.” _

How does Tim explain to the boy who never stops talking that silence is okay? He decides to not even try. “We usually play chess, and I’m going to watch her play basketball after school today.”

“How’d you know she’s on the basketball team? Or that they’re practicing today? Well, other than the fact that she’s basically in every major sport…” Bernard says, still following at Tim’s heels like a puppy because his own food is already at the table. Tim pays for his food and begins walking with the other boy to their usual table.

“She asked me to come,” he says, and feels vindictive satisfaction at the baffled expression on Bernard’s face.

“She  _ asked  _ you?”

“Yup,” Tim replies, offering absolutely no explanation. He blatantly ignores Bernard in favour of eating his food.

Bernard eventually decides to just shake away his confusion and returns to the earlier topic. He has an annoying knack for remembering subject changes. “Anyway, I still can’t believe you talked back to Miss. Cavanaugh. She’s going to hunt you down and make your life miserable, I hope you know.”

“I hope she knows she’s a useless teacher,” Tim mumbles petulantly.

“I thought she was pretty nice,” Ariana pipes in, reaching their table last. 

“Hi, you’re Timothy Drake, right?” comes the sudden voice beside Tim, and he turns to see a Middle Eastern boy looking at him hesitantly. Behind him, across the room, there’s a group of boys at the end of another table looking after him, and Tim assumes he’s with them.

“That’s me,” he answers. Bernard and Ariana started bickering the moment Ariana got to the table and haven't stopped, but Tim isn’t surprised. Once they start arguing, nothing gets in their way until someone physically interrupts them.

“Are you really friends with Cassandra Cain?”

Tim has the sudden urge to bang his head against the table. “Yes,” he grits out.

“I just wanted to let you know that I think that it’s nice that someone is willing to be friends with her.” It would sound like one of the kinder things Tim has heard today, but it strikes him wrong.  _ Willing.  _ As if Tim is sacrificing something to do it. Like being Cass' friend is a chore. “It’s so sad to see people like that. I mean, no offense to her, I’m just being honest, but people like that really aren’t going anywhere in this world, you know?”

Tim doesn’t have time to get over his shock and answer when the boy goes, “Anyway, it was nice to meet you, Tim,” and scurries away again.

Tim has half a mind to go to that table and… He doesn’t know. Yell? Lecture someone? The urge to do  _ something,  _ as if he’s just as bad as them if he doesn’t, is so strong that he stares at the table of boys as if his legs will move if he looks long and hard enough.

“Tim? You okay?” Ariana asks, snapping Tim back out of his thoughts. He doesn’t answer her,  only gets up and dumps the rest of his lunch in the garbage and heads for the library. He isn’t hungry anymore.

* * *

 

There’s something to be said about the way Cassandra Cain moves.

Tim wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t there himself, watching from the very back corner of the bleachers despite the fact that there is no one else on the bleachers, because there isn’t an audience, because this is just an off-season practice round.

Tim would like to cheer for Cass, but he can’t really tell when something good happens for the team and when something bad happens so he figures it’s better if he just doesn’t do anything.

_ >>Wat up ? _

It’s from Steph.

_ <<Watching a basketball game. You? _

_ >>Procrastinating. Uhh y r u at a bball game? _

_ <<Why are you procrastinating? _

_ >>Bcuz im me. But u hate sports _

Tim can’t deny that that’s true. He can’t think of an answer so he lays his phone on his lap and looks back to the game. Catching his attention with it isn’t hard, which should be shocking because Tim doesn’t know anything more boring than sports (their plays are so predictable, all anyone bothers with is speed and accuracy and that just gets repetitive after awhile, once Tim is done analysing and calculating exactly what lengths each player can shoot and angles they can hit to a percentile of success), but it’s really only Cass that makes it interesting. 

She’s a different person on the court, with a body that moves like fluid water and limbs like snakes. Power in every strike, she gets every shot with the ball into the exact center of the hoop and slips and slides out of blocks, rolls past defenses like the space isn’t being occupied by six foot tall girls with thighs and arms like steel.

_ <<Cass invited me. _

Tim’s told Steph about Cass, of course. Steph wouldn’t let up about asking if Tim had made any new friends in his school, so she knows all about Bernard, Ariana, and Cass. Especially Cass. Every time Tim sees her, she occupies his mind -- an enigma he wants to solve but can only do so by walking through a maze, and the only person Tim has who might listen to what he has to say about her is Steph. 

More often than not Tim finds himself replacing Bernard and Ariana with Cass in who to meet or hang out with, because while Bernard and Ariana have each other, it looks to him that Cass has no one. No one that appreciates her, anyway. No one that understands. In a way, Tim feels almost like it’s his duty as someone who has touched upon the puzzle that is Cassandra Cain to pursue it and stick with it, try his best to understand, and as he peels back more layers that reveals more and more of what her life must be like, Tim feels like he...gets it. Like he can almost relate.

Which is impossible. Tim isn’t mute or dyslexic (or an amazing athlete), after all.

_ >> oh. Cool. _

_ <<Everyone always says how good she is, but wow. She’s amazing. She could probably get into the Olympics if she’s as good at basketball as she is with everything else. _

_ >>lotta practice _

_ <<Probably. But it’s different, you know? I wish you could see this. These girls are twice her size and she can totally guard them from the hoop by jumping or moving to every side when they do. She doesn’t even feign. She just goes straight for it and gets it right. _

Shoes squeak against the linoleum as Cass ducks under an arm right as it goes down, and it doesn’t even manage to graze her. She runs, bounds, and jumps in time to touch the trailing lines of thread from the hoop, an awesome height to even attempt for someone of her stature, and rolls the ball into the hoop without so much as shaking it.

_ >>didnt know u knew so much bout bball _

_ <<I don’t, but I’m learning. It’s easy to figure out by watching. _

_ >>always the genius :) _

The opposite team is offensive and the one with the ball is already being guarded while Cass is a good three feet away. But before Tim can figure out why she’s moving, she’s skidded her way that entire distance to charge right into and steal the ball as it makes an unexpected pass that the defense is too surprised to knock.

_ <<I don’t get how she’s doing it. _

_ >>wat do u mean? _

_ <<She can tell what someone is going do from all the way across the court. It’s like she knows what they’re going to do before they do it. _

_ >>thats not possible _

_ <<I didn’t think playing basketball at all was possible until an hour ago. _

_ >>haha! _

Is it possible? Tim sets his phone on the bench beside him and leans forward.

Cass is currently guarding again, but she’s hardly moving. The other members of her team are waving their arms, bouncing on their feet, trying to prevent a clear opening from showing up to their opponent, but Cass looks like she’s only moving the minimal amount for show. She does start moving, abruptly, adjusting her posture and throwing her hand up right before the person she’s guarding attempts to go in that direction.

Tim ignores the stare the coach gives him as he gathers his stuff and moves to a spot closer to the court.

Another ten minutes pass as he puzzles over it until he notices something that feels like an epiphany. When Cass is forced to guard the player with the ball, Tim realises that she isn’t looking at the ball. She isn’t even looking at the person’s arms or legs. She’s staring straight into their eyes.

There’s no way she can see the ball if she’s looking in that direction. The player in front of her tries hard to maintain eye contact, then glances to the right as their arm goes to the left--

Cass easily steps to the left. The pass doesn’t reach the other player, and the dropped ball is picked up by Cass’ teammate. Tim squints.

_ <<She isn’t even paying attention to the ball. _

_ >>wat? _

_ <<That must be why she’s equally awesome at all sports. She’s not actually focused on the ball, or the game, or the skills to get the ball to the goal. But then what is she focused on? _

_ >>you’re starting to sound obsessed. or crazy. _

_ <<...One sec. _

Feeling frustrated, Tim clicks on his camera and records a short thirty second video of Cass, whispering his observations before sending it to Steph. She answers about a minute later.

_ >>she’s cute _

Tim is starting to feel exasperated.  _ <<Not the point, remember? Look at where she’s looking. _

_ >>at the other players? like wat every1 is doing? _

_ <<Not like this. When she has the ball, she isn’t looking towards the goal either. She’s staring at everyone else around her. Nobody else does that. At around 11 sec, she was staring at the other girl’s legs and predicted that the girl was going to pass with her opposite arm. By staring at her foot. _

Tim freezes, rereading what he wrote, and suddenly realisation dawns at him. He types with renewed vigor.  _ <<What if that’s exactly what she’s doing? She’s PREDICTING them? _

_ >>uhhh ??? _

_ <<What if she’s reading what they’re going to do based on body language? So she doesn’t really have to play a sport for long to be able to master it, since a sport relies on people interaction, and if she can predict people then she can predict the game. _

Steph doesn’t answer immediately, but by this point Tim doesn’t even care. He feels ready to jump out of his seat and run across the floor to demand answers out of Cass, because being a good athlete and being intensely observant and amazingly intelligent enough to predict a person’s actions based on their body movement is something else entirely. Her athletics are based on her skill with her brain, not with her feet.

Screw everyone who has ever said that Cass is stupid. If what Tim thinks is true…

He wants to strangle her tutors now more than ever.

The rest of the game passes in a cloud, where Tim is more sucked into his own thoughts than what’s going on around him. Before he knows it, the teams are splitting their respective ways and Cass is off in the corner shouldering a black bag. Tim beelines towards her before the floor has cleared, causing him to bump into another player and get stared at the whole rest of the way. Cass beams at him when he approaches, face made up primarily of rosy cheeks puffed out with the force of her smile and sweat matted bangs sticking to her forehead.

“You didn’t tell me-- well, I mean, obviously you didn’t tell me, but-- still!” Tim groans, giving up, and puts his face in his hands. When he peeks through his fingers, Cass’ expression is having a hard time deciding between being befuddled or amused. He drops his hands and twists around to look back at Cass’ teammates, currently huddled together in a small crowd hugging and patting each other on the backs. Tim and Cass are standing clear on the other end of the gym. It doesn’t settle well with him. From Cass’ side-eyed glance that she tries to hide, it doesn’t settle well with her either. “You can predict people, right? I’m not just crazy?”

She freezes, staring at him, her face carefully blank.

“You were barely paying attention to the goal or the ball. It was all about the players. You stared at someone’s feet instead of their hands when you were trying to figure out where they would try to pass, because people shift their weight on their feet when they’re planning on using a certain hand.” He’s on a roll now. Tim is slightly embarrassed by the thought that Cass might not know what he’s talking about and he’s just making a fool of himself, but with the way she’s listening, staring at him cautiously and oh-so carefully, he feels like he’s onto something. 

Now that he’s speaking out loud, the thoughts come out like a waterfall. “You don’t get as tired as fast into the game since you know where someone is going to move, and you can get there without all the unnecessary running caused when people fake moves or turns, and it doesn’t actually have anything to do with the insane stamina everyone mentions about you. Though, I’m sure you have that too. It’s like...you can read people. You don’t speak with your words, you speak with your body, don’t you? That’s why it’s so hard for people to tell what you’re saying. You try to get it across to them using your body language, but subtle body language isn’t as obvious to everyone else as it is to you so people end up misunderstanding you and that’s why--”

Tim doesn’t realise how quickly he’s talking until Cass clamps a palm over his mouth. He scrunches his eyebrows together and tries to frown at her in disapproval, but he’s too excited and ends up just smiling through her fingers. She’s smiling even wider than he is. When she lowers her hand, so slowly, she starts to look awkward and nervous. Opens her mouth, flexes her fingers, but she clearly can’t get her thoughts across to Tim as well as she desires to.

Tim can’t begin to imagine how that must feel.

Cass eventually decides on a course of action, and anxiously inches forward so that she can gingerly slip her arms under Tim’s arms, around his waist. They’re both stiff, but Tim finally manages to force himself to relax after a few seconds, and when Cass follows in suit, he finds that his shoulders just loosen on their own until he’s able to wrap his arms back around her waist. They’re both roughly the same height. With the new position, Cass is able to hook her chin over his shoulder.

Tim can’t remember the last time he had a hug like this with anyone. It’s different with Steph, and he hasn’t even had a hug from her in months. Hers are initiated by excitement, thrown around freely and more air than physical contact. Right now, Tim can feel every line of Cass’ body, her nervous breaths tickling the hair on his neck. He can tell when her grip tightens by the barest amount, every shift of fabric and weight as glaringly obvious as a siren. There’s meaning in it that Tim can’t remember being given by anyone other than Jay.

Tim hasn’t ever see her touch anyone but him, and until now, even those contacts have always been only strictly necessary touches to the shoulder or arm. Cass is different in the way that every gesture she makes is a phrase, every move a sentence. Purposeful, intentional, with every new amount of pressure a different paragraph, words only abstract ideas carved into atoms and molecules.

While Jay’s hugs spark something like electricity under Tim’s skin, makes him anxious and nervous with pent up energy, when him and Cass separate Tim is struck with how suddenly tired he feels. It takes him a moment to realise that what he’s feeling is contentment.

It seems natural from there for Tim to drop his arm and grab her hand. She seems surprised, but then she gives that small, sweet smile that is so signature to her face and readjusts her bag on her shoulder. He squeezes her fingers before letting go, a small pulse of camaraderie that has them walking close together in their journey for the main doors. “So, I’m guessing I was right?”

Cass elbows him and he takes that as a yes.

They make it three feet outside, the entire time occupied by the stare of the same girl who had been staring at Tim inside a few minutes ago, talking off to the side with a group of friends. As they pass, she calls: “Hey, are you two dating?”

Cass only shakes her head, but Tim is feeling bold and he suddenly hates this girl who ignores Cass except from at a distance, who obviously doesn’t include Cass in anything, who is incredulous at the concept of someone wanting to date Cass, and who apparently feels it’s her right to go sticking her nose into everyone else’s lives. Tim grips the strap of his backpack for support and stops abruptly, swiveling around to glare at the girl. She looks taken aback before Tim even opens his mouth. “Do you have nothing better to do in your life but stick your head into everyone else’s business, or are you just compensating?”

He doesn’t stop to wait for her answer and begins marching away, ignoring the curious arch of Cass’ brow until they’ve turned a corner and the girl has finished shouting: “I was just  _ asking,  _ jeez!”

“I don’t get why you bother with people who don’t care about you,” Tim scowls.

All Cass does in response is give a smaller, sadder version of her earlier vibrant smile. She reaches forward to grip Tim’s arm, his own hands still occupied with gripping his backpack straps. He lets it happen and tries not to think about how much of a hypocrite he is.

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you’re going to  _ France,”  _ Ariana yells, jabbing an aggressive finger into Bernard’s chest. Tim watches, barely managed to sidestep a person running through the hall who nearly shoves him into the wall.

“My parents go to Europe all the time,” Tim says placatingly. “Ber will be back before you know it.”

“Yeah!” Bernard agrees vehemently, if only to appease Ariana enough that she stops hurting him.

“I mean, you probably won’t even notice he’s gone.”

“Yea--What? Dude!” Bernard protests.

“I’ve never even left the city. Rich people are disgusting,” Ariana grumbles, crossing her arms, much to Bernard’s apparent relief.

“Wow, it’s almost like you go to school with them,” deadpans Bernard.

“I don’t think I’m too disgusting. I even take a shower every day,” says Tim.

“Thanks for clarifying, I was kind of wondering about that,” Bernard quips, plugging his nose with his fingers. Tim kicks him.

Ariana only huffs in disapproval, glaring at them. “You both are leaving me alone for three months with pure boredom and annoying Russian relatives as my only companions.”

“I don’t even have the Russian relatives,” points out Tim. “Probably Jewish ones, though.”

“I don’t have  _ any  _ cool foreign relatives,” Bernard complains.

“Don’t you dare complain,” Ariana says. “Tim has a  _ pool  _ on his freaking roof and you’re going to  _ France.” _

“Yeah,  _ summer school  _ in France! It’s some camp thing my parents are making me go to. Apparently summer is too ‘unproductive’. Isn’t lack of productivity the entire point of a three month  _ break?” _

“Poor thing, his parents are forcing him to an exotic European country to have new experiences and make friends. How ever will he survive?” Ariana mocks, turning to Tim.

Tim laughs as Bernard just gawks in indignation. He’s about to reply when a voice suddenly starts shouting: “Ten!”

More people join in: “Nine!”

“Eight!”

“Oh no,” Ariana says, grabbing both Tim and Bernard and dragging them away from the main hallway. “Love the thought of getting out of this school and all, but I do not love the thought of getting trampled.”

“Six!”

“Five!”

The three of them join in for: “Four!”

“Three!”

“Two!”

“One!”

When the bell doesn’t ring, someone adds, “Zero!” The bell rings a second after that, and then the whooping and shouting starts as people flood out of the exits where they had been loitering for the past minute. To be fair, it’s not as many people as Tim had seen in public school, so he doesn’t have to plaster himself against the wall to avoid them this time. He’s grateful.

When the hall clears, he finds himself being pulled into a tight hug initiated by Bernard, his head knocking against Ariana as she suffers a similar fate. “Ow!” she yelps.

“I’ll see you guys in a few months,” Bernard says, stepping back with a grin. Ariana punches him in the arm.

“You do remember you’re my ride, right?”

“Dang, and I was so close to escaping, too.”

They both turn to embrace Tim again when they pause, and Tim is confused by the hesitation until he notices that Cass has sidled up beside him. She looks embarrassed to suddenly receive so much attention. Tim has no idea where she even came from. She must have been waiting for Ariana and Bernard to start walking away before approaching.

“Oh, hi!” Ariana is the first to recover, holding her hand out for a handshake. “I’m Ariana Dzerchenko. Cassandra Cain, right?”

Cass nods, despite the fact that everyone there no doubt already knows her name. Ariana turns to Bernard expectantly after Cass accepts the handshake.

“Uh. Yeah. I’m Bernard Dowd,” Bernard says awkwardly, also holding out a hand. What follows is one of the most excruciatingly silences Tim has ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

He finds it surreal that it’s been months and yet his very exclusive selection of friends have only just met each other.

“Right, well, we’re heading out. See ya, Timboy,” Bernard says, dragging Tim forward again into another aggressive hug, followed by Ariana’s more gentle embrace, before they walk away waving and shouting their goodbyes.

“Have a good summer!” Tim shouts after them. The responding shout is cut off by the closing of the main entrance door. He turns to Cass and smiles. “Hey.”

She waves her greeting and falls in step beside him as Tim shoulders his backpack and follows Ariana and Bernard out the door, albeit at a much slower pace to avoid running into them. He’s not masochistic enough to want a repeat performance of that awkward encounter.

“Any summer plans?” he asks, craning his head to see Cass’ response. She only shrugs. “You’re probably the most indecisive person I’ve ever met, I hope you know,” Tim comments. She just rolls her eyes and rubs the cross charm on the chain around her neck between her fingers absentmindedly.

The sun is out for once, although the ground is wet, as it often is in May. The small puddles of neglected rain water gleam like beaten silver under the noon sun. Tim thanks any deity listening that the last day of school is an early dismissal. He can actually feel the warm threads of the sun on his neck, something he’s missed dearly throughout the winter (all nine months of it, as Gotham winters tend to do). Today, he doesn’t mind taking the public bus to the penthouse. Maybe he’ll even get off at an earlier stop than usual.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he almost misses the car pull up beside them.

“Cassie?” a voice calls, and Tim whips his head around in surprise to see a redheaded woman in the driver’s seat try to duck her head to look through the passenger window that’s still being rolled down. “Dad asked me to pick you up today.”

Quickly into meeting Cass, Tim had figured out that they go to the same bus stop after school. Unfortunately, they don’t ride the same bus and Tim’s arrives before Cass’ so he’s never found out where she lives. This is the first time he’s ever heard or seen any mention of her elusive family. He doesn’t really know how to react to that. He knows absolutely nothing about them and doesn’t know how to go about asking, but Cass at least seems happy to see the redhead.

The woman looks surprised to realise that Tim and Cass had been walking together when Tim comes to a stop right alongside Cass to look at the car. “Oh, hi. Are you...a friend of Cass?”

“Uh, yeah,” Tim says quietly. He doesn’t understand why he’s being so withdrawn all of the sudden, but while Cass looks slightly worried, there isn’t any confusion on her own face. Tim wonders what sort of conclusion she’s come to about Tim’s behaviour. He wishes he could find out. “I’m Tim.”

The woman still looks cautious, but it’s a pleased kind, and she grins at him. “Nice to meet you! I’m Barbara, but everyone just calls me Babs. I’m happy to hear Cass has a friend at school.” She looks between him and Cass again before eventually deciding on a course of action. “Were you heading to the bus stop?”

“Yeah.”

“No need. Where do you live?”

“Mercer St.”

If she’s surprised, she doesn’t show it. “Diamond District, right? Didn’t know there were houses there. Well, that’s close enough by. Hop in.”

Tim only briefly hesitates, but he’s spurred into action by Cass moving forward to open the door for him and scooting to the other end of the back row seats. Tim finds the gesture comforting, especially since she could have easily gotten in the passenger seat. He slides in after her.

“So, Tim,” Barbara begins, smiling warmly as he shuts the door behind him and she reenters traffic. “Do you and Cassie have any classes together?”

“No. We, uh, met in the library. She let me play chess with her, and I guess I’m pretty bad so she decided to start teaching me.” Barbara smirks at that.

“Yeah, good luck trying to beat her. I’ve never seen it happen. I taught her the basic rules of chess and then she ran away with it. I’m telling you, the day after explaining that a pawn couldn’t move backwards and I was suddenly getting my butt handed to me on a silver platter.”

Tim laughs, relieved that the tension is starting to bleed out of him. “Yeah, I got the impression that she’s pretty great at games in general.”

“Hmm, depends,” Barbara responds cryptically. Cass shoots up in her seat, which sparks Tim’s curiousity.

“‘Depends’?” he echoes.

“You should come over and play videogames together some time.”

Tim turns to look at Cass and is startled to find that she’s busy making a slit-throat gesture in the rearview mirror. He stares, and she snaps her hand back down and pretends to have been doing nothing.

He’s so surprised that a laugh erupts from him without his permission, spurred on by Cass’ suddenly sheepish expression. Barbara begins cracking up, too, and that’s when Tim decides that the summer is definitely shaping up to be an interesting one.


	11. Chapter 11

Tim decides it the night before, staring at the bumpy ceiling above his bed and barely able to sleep because his heart is pounding hard enough for him to hear it and the smile on his face just won’t go away.

He wakes up early the next morning, despite having hardly slept, the early summer sun gradually lightening the sky outside his window in a way that he doesn’t notice until he’s shoving a water bottle into his bag and realises that he can actually see more than just the outline of it. Tim makes two sandwiches and packs those along with the water bottles, then an extra sweatshirt just in case it’s cold, and these new really good headphones his dad bought earlier in the year that Tim always takes when he isn’t looking just in case it’s too loud outside to share music with only Tim’s phone’s speakers, and one of his old comic books just in case Jay wants something to read when he’s bored-- Tim eventually has to stop loading things in when the sun is completely up because he really needs to get going.

“Morning, Tim!” the man at the front desk, Ryan, calls out as Tim steps out of the private elevator. He’s new, although he’s been in the hotel business for years, and young compared to most of the staff -- easily in his late 20’s. His bright enthusiasm combined with chronic talkativity makes the hotel lobby less gloomy, and makes Tim feel just a bit more... Well, at the very least, he always finds it pleasant that Ryan will still offer a wave even while he’s in the middle of checking people in.

“Morning!” Tim calls back as he shoulders his backpack and ignores the curious looks of men in suits around him. Sometimes he hates that he has to walk out this way, although the sight of the hotel lobby makes up for it -- red and golden carpeting with a chandelier overhead, a fireplace constantly fueled and framed by sleek brown stones with a small fountain over in the corner. Everything gleams and sparkles like it’s worth a million dollars. Tim usually goes to sit next to the fireplace to do his homework. For some reason, the quiet background coming and goings of strangers around him helps his concentration, and Ryan certainly doesn’t mind the occasional company on a slow day.

Ryan arches an amused brow. “Isn’t it summer break? Where are you off to so early?”

“Going to a friend’s house,” chirps Tim. He practically skips out the revolving doors as Ryan shouts good luck after him.

He walks to the bus stop but still ends up ten minutes early. He tries sitting on the bench to wait, but his knee keeps bouncing impatiently, so he resigns himself to standing and unobtrusively pacing. When the bus finally arrives five minutes late, it’s like taking a breath of fresh air and Tim is the first one on and into the front row seats. The front is a place he normally likes to reserve for the elderly, but from the looks of the bus he has a feeling not many other people are heading up to the Narrows.

The seats are empty and the bus is rickety, creaking over every bit of uneven gravel in its unsteady rumble northwards. Tim approximates a 20-minute journey due to the sheer amount of traffic from hitting the tail end of rush hour. He digs his headphones out of his backpack as the sky shucks the last dregs of the night.

Stepping out onto the street roughly a half hour later, nostalgia hits him like a freight train. It’s something that throws Tim a little off-balance, because he didn’t know nostalgia could happen for places he saw only a few months ago, but after the chaos of the spring he feels like he just stepped into the past. It’s strange, but he never thought that he’d start to consider these mucky streets that smell like urine half the time more familiar than his own home.

The way he walks down them is evidence enough of the change. He doesn’t stride confidently down paths where, last he checked, were neutral between the three primary gangs of the area (unless one of them knocked the other out in the last few months, which happens oddly often), because to stride confidently and arrogantly is to call attention to himself, but not a step is uncertain. Tim knows exactly where he’s going and how to get there and that tiny bit of certainty and assurance is enough to relax him, even in the middle of some of Gotham’s most dangerous streets (though still not as bad as Chinatown).

When he gets to the apartment complex, Tim has to try and refrain from flat out running through the halls. His calves are aching with how tense they’ve been, trying to fast walk their way through the rundown and weary streets. When he gets to the door with the familiar flaking red paint, he knocks on it -- softly, despite how much he wants to punch it down, because he knows that if he knocks too hard then Jay might open the door with a pistol (an experience Tim never wants to relive).

He scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the ground as he waits, noting the stained carpet with something akin to relief, like stepping under a hot shower after a cold day. When the door creaks open (the same creak he’s heard hundreds of times, the same everything), Tim snaps his head up and opens his mouth, lips already stretching into a smile--

No words come out.

The woman who opened the door peers from behind the crack the deadbolt chain still dangling across the empty space. She glances up and down the hall, then eyes him from head to toe and sends him a decidedly caustic look. “What?” she barks.

“I--uh…,” Tim stutters, attempting to regain his bearings like a fish out of water. “I’m looking for Jay.”

“There’s no one named that here,” she responds with a glare.

Tim, wanting nothing more than to stop being faced with her temper, immediately declares, “Oh, then I must have the wrong door. Uh, I’m so--” He doesn’t get to finish his apology before the door is slammed in his face.

He takes a step back and stares at the number on the door. That can’t be right. He’s been here too many times to get the door wrong. Except...maybe it really has been long enough for Tim to forget the details. He glances down the hall, noting where the broken in door patched up with duct tape and cardboard is located (Tim is starting to doubt anyone actually lives there anymore) and counts up the hall from it.

Three doors up from that one is Jay’s apartment. Tim remembers this vividly. This _has_ to be the right place. After a few seconds of contemplating as he stares at the off-white plaster wall, Tim decides to ask someone and see if they know where Jay lives, because he has to be wrong or else nothing makes sense. He turns around to go to the place across the hall, the one with the notorious stoners, when he hears the door creak open again behind him.

“You lookin’ for the kid who used t’live here?”

Tim turns cautiously to see a different woman at the door, significantly younger than the previous one, with rich brown hair bundled up into a ponytail long enough to sweep over her shoulder. She looks hesitant at first, but seems to judge Tim as little threat and eventually opens the door all the way when he offers no answer apart from scrunched up eyebrows. “I was wonderin’ when somebody like you would come ‘round. Wait here a sec, I’ll get it.” Before Tim can get a word in edgewise, she’s gone.

Tim can’t remember the last time he’s felt such building anxiety as he does while he waits for her to return. There’s a bubble of dread building in his chest that he desperately wants to pop for some relief because it feels like it’s crowding up his lungs and he can’t breathe properly, there isn’t enough space inside of him for air.

“Here y’go!” the woman declares when she kicks the door back open again and presents Tim with an unimpressive, plain cardboard box. “That’s all they missed, anyway. Just some stuff crammed under one’a the beds when me and ma moved in.”

He stares down at it, unsure what to do and feeling like he’s just been thrown into a reality TV show. “What?” he asks inelegantly. She frowns at him. When Tim glances up, he can see the living room past her shoulder. The couch is in the wrong place.

“Uh, you doin’ okay?”

“What’s this?” Tim finally demands, finding his voice. With another persistent nudge, the box is thrust into his arms. He looks down at the slightly open flap. An Eminem album is peeking out. “Where’s Jay?”

He knows his voice is mounting on hysteria when the woman gives him a startled look and grabs the edge of her door, stepping back inside. “If y’mean the kid who lived here before, nobody got any idea.”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t he be here?” His questions bounce back to him in the echo of the empty hall.

“Didn’tcha hear?” the woman says. “The guy next door told us his ma offed herself or somethin’. The kid just up and vanished, wasn’t nowhere to be found when the landlord found the body after the guys across the hall complained about the smell. ‘Course, we found all this out after we moved in, but really, where am I gonna get a place better in this dump? Anyway, betcha the po-po picked the kid up somewhere and threw him in a home.”

The bubble in his chest pops. There’s no relief. It pops into a wave of acid burning in his throat and chasing his heart away.

“Were you his friend?"

 _Were._ “I--I’m. Yeah.”

“Damn, that sucks.”

Tim hears the words like they’re underwater. Jay’s mother is _dead_ and Jay is...somewhere, on the streets or in a foster home or _dead_ too and Tim…

Tim didn’t know.

“How...long?” he croaks out. Thankfully, the woman knows what he means.

“We been here ‘bout three months now, I think.”

_Three months._

He doesn’t hear what she says next, but he does recall maybe mumbling something in response before she makes her awkward exit because suddenly Tim is sliding to the floor in front of a closed door and he can’t _breathe,_ he can’t _see_ through the tears obscuring his vision. He had no idea.

Tim _forgot_ about Jay while caught up in his new home, his new school, his new _friends_ while Jay, just thirty minutes away, needed him the most. Wherever Jay is, Tim has this gut-awful feeling that he’s alone.

* * *

It seems like Tim remembers more than he gives himself credit for, or at least his feet do, because without thinking, in a haze of grief and guilt, he finds himself walking up the street to the bread shop on Asher Ave. He’s standing in front of it in no time, peering into the humble shop with the bells over the door clinking softly in the slight wind. Tim braces himself against the heavy door as he drags it open and ducks inside. The last time he entered the shop through the front was two years ago, when he was hiding Jay’s birthday gifts from him, and that wave of nostalgia feels like it almost knocks him off his feet.

“Hello,” someone calls from the kitchen, out of view. It’s a man’s voice. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Tim occupies himself with staring blankly at the wheat and nut bread until the man comes back, walking in from behind a curtain. His smile grows just a little more at the sight of Tim. “Well, here’s a fresh face. Haven’t seen y‘round before.” There’s a question at the end of it, but Tim isn’t in the mood to answer. He doesn’t look up.

“Is Kori here?” he asks, just barely remembering to keep his manners. The man’s cheerful demeanor abruptly drops. He must take in the croak of Tim’s throat and realise his puffy eyes.

“Hmm,” the man hums, frowning. Tim finally glances up. He’s a short, plump man with large hands and chest hair peeking above his white cotton-top and a full head of grey hair. He’s been running a rag through his fingers this entire time. It must be a habit. “I can’t say you’re the first young man askin’ for her.” His eyes take on something apologetic, a strange emotion that Tim has yet to see from anyone else in this part of town. “‘Fraid she’s not. She moved to California a while back, sort of without notice too. Can’t say how she got across the country, though. I know for a fact that pretty lady doesn’t have her license.”

Salt to rub in the wound. Tim takes in a deep, shaking breath to try and appease the sudden drop of his heart. It doesn’t work. “I...thought she was the owner’s daughter?”

The man gives out a booming laugh that makes Tim jump. “No, no! Sure wish she was, though. I’m the owner. To be honest, I’ve never met those parents of hers. Pretty hush-hush ‘bout the whole thing. Can’t blame her. Many people these parts are.” Again, the questions, tacked on inconspicuously at the end. Who is Tim, where did he come from, why is he here? Tim, once more, doesn’t bother to answer.

“Oh. I...I can’t find my friend, I was hoping…” Tim mutters, and he isn’t sure why he goes to justify his visit. Probably because he isn’t going to buy any bread, which is pretty rude.

“Ah,” the owner nods sagely, as if he understands.

“...Sorry, I’ll just,” Tim says awkwardly after a minute, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the door. The man goes to say something, but by then Tim has already run out as fast as he can, crashing against the heavy door in his haste.

Where would Jay _go?_

The streets. Jay would be living on the streets, no doubt. But where on the streets? It’s most likely that he’s stayed in the Narrows, but even the Narrows is too large a place for Tim to search alone. He readjusts the weight of his backpack on his shoulder, now much heavier since he stuffed the box inside of it. Tim had to take out the water bottles to make it fit, but even then the top of the cardboard pokes out.

With nowhere to go, he heads sluggishly back to the bus stop, all the way at the edge of New Town. Tim is ready to sit there and stare at the street until the bus arrives, but when five minutes pass, he finds his eye being caught by the box in his bag. Gingerly, he unzips his backpack and places it on his lap, slowly opening the flaps.

Most of it is CDs and well-worn comic books, but under a Punisher comic there’s a small grey composition notebook. He’s expecting a diary, or a journal of doodles, but instead when he opens the first page there’s only a phone number scribbled in faded and smeared graphite.

He’s staring at it when the bus arrives. It’s empty like it was a few hours ago and he sits in the very front again, this time with a box on his thighs and a notebook open in his hands.

  
Tim is taking his phone out and typing in the number before he gives himself a chance to really think it through. He jerks back to reality when the voicemail message plays a man’s voice:

_Congratulations, you’ve successfully bothered me. If I owe you money, feel free to never call this number again. If you’re the pretty girl I met last night, please leave a message. Thanks!_

Tim hangs up before he can leave a message and stares at his phone screen. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it wasn’t that. Still, he’s made it this far. Taking a deep breath, he musters up the courage to open his messages and type in the number.

_ <<Hi. I found your number in my friend’s journal and was wondering who you were. _

Tim knows he should say more. He should state his name and intentions, not open with something vague enough to sound like a complete creep. The reality of the situation is, though, that he doesn’t know what his intentions are and he doesn’t necessarily want to give this person his name. He gets an immediate response, which makes him wonder why the person didn’t pick up his phone in the first place (something Tim is secretly grateful for. He wouldn’t have known what to say).

_ >>what friend? Who tf r u? _

He doesn’t actually answer the question. That’s okay though, because Tim isn’t going to answer his either.

_ <<His name is Jay. He went missing a while ago. I was wondering if you knew anything about where he went? _

There’s a pause this time, a good few minutes that Tim spends packing up the box.

_ >>Idk anyone named Jay _

Tim narrows his eyes. He has to be lying. Why would his number be with Jay if he doesn’t know who Jay is?

_ <<He’s 14 years old and lives in Crime Alley. Your number was in his journal, there’s no way you don’t know him. _

_ >>fuck off, i never messed with kids _

_ <<Messed with? _

_ >>jfc if ur friend had my # then hes probably a junky, but I never dealt to kids _

_ >>i havent been in Gotham for years _

_ >>dont know y ur friend kept my # but its useless _

There’s something pressing against Tim’s ribs, a crushing sense of disappointment, but he doesn’t know what he’s disappointed about until the third time he’s reread the stranger’s messages.

The number just belongs to some average-joe _drug dealer._ Of course this is the only number Jay has bothered to keep. Of course they know nothing about where Jay is. Tim wants to scream, but instead he settles for clutching his phone so hard that his knuckles tinge white. With red-hot anger screeching through his veins, he types so hard that he feels like the pads of his fingers are going to bruise.

 _ <<He’s not a junky. He never has been and never will. His mother was the one who made him buy drugs from assholes like you. You have NO RIGHT to judge him. _ _  
_

The man doesn’t answer. In a fit of outrage, Tim kicks the seat in front of him, ignoring the annoyed look of the bus driver, and shoves his phone in his pocket to return to staring out at the street. The grey skies have finally given way to sad rain, fat droplets splattering onto the concrete and dotting the colour of the streets like a dalmation.

Tim hopes that wherever Jay is, he’s warm.

It’s pouring when Tim gets off the bus at the D-District, and soon enough the hoodie that he grabbed from his bag is soaked through. He doesn’t feel like running, so when he gets inside the hotel lobby Ryan looks up from his desk in surprise. “Ever heard of a rain jacket?” he asks, concern bleeding into his voice. Tim feels bad about blatantly ignoring him, but he isn’t in the mood for banter and just marches straight to the private elevator. It’s when he’s in the elevator that he takes out his phone and stares at the new message, delivered a few minutes ago.

_ >>whos his mother? _

Tim doesn’t respond until he’s shucked off his wet clothes and thrown them onto the floor instead of the hamper as he normally does, sprawling out onto his bed sheets in just his shirt and boxers.

_ <<I don’t know her name, but they lived off the corner of Asher, in a pretty run down apartment building. _

_ >>and her son is 14 now? _

_ >>wow. You gotta be shitting me if this is catherine youre talking about. Last I saw her the little guy was like 10 or something _

_ >>how is she? _

Tim snorts at the screen, too unusually exhausted for it still being the morning to care that nothing is actually funny. The man seems to have gotten considerably kinder in the face of new information. Tim doesn’t know if he’s grateful or if he just wants the stranger to go away. There’s no reason to keep texting him anymore, he doesn’t know where Jay is. Even so, Tim finds himself texting back, because Tim knows from personal experience how cruel it is to leave someone in the dark.

_ <<She’s dead. _

A second later:

_ >>fuck _

Tim puts his face in the crook of his elbow and lets himself cry.

He must fall asleep at some point, he didn’t much of that earlier after all, because when he raises his head his neck is stiff and his eyes are shut tight with crud in the corners. He wipes it away and picks his phone back up. He has four missed messages.

_ >>im guessing thats why u cant find the kid _

_ >>look, i know a thing or two about looking for someone alone, alright? Its not fun and doesnt really work _

_ >>im not in Gotham and im not coming back, im in the middle of looking for my own missing person, but ive got a friend in that hellhole i can call _

_ >>whats ur name? _

Normally, Tim wouldn’t hesitate. But there’s something there inside of him this time, something scared and untrusting, that compels him to write:

_ <<Alvin. _

_ >>alright alvin, dont worry too much. Ull find him. _

Tim doesn’t believe it, but it’s a nice gesture all the same. That doesn’t stop him from throwing the phone off the bed in frustration. It doesn’t escape him that the stranger doesn’t give him a name in return.  



	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been spending a lot of time adjusting the plot for this. I'm really disappointed because I've had to cut a few things out that I desperately wanted. Such as Tim going undercover. I'm sure you all wanted to read it as much as I wanted to write it. Maybe in a side story?
> 
> Enjoy!

When he has nothing else to do, Tim turns to research. He’s 99.9% certain Cass is making fun of him in her head, but, well, it’s what they always say -- if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all.

“So, I have this theory that your dyslexia is linked to your speech impairments. I mean, it can’t be a coincidence. Especially since this is a severe case of both. I’ve been looking into parts of the brain that can link the two together -- by the way, research papers are honestly great at giving nobody a straight answer except for ‘oh the left-side of the brain is all about language stuff like 83% of the time!’ -- but the most I could find was just a general statement about the left hemisphere. I decided I’d have better luck looking into what each section of the left hemisphere is responsible for, and I found something you might find interesting. Just sent you the link of a coloured map, by the way. The pink part is called Broca’s area.”

He waits for her to click it before continuing. “It’s responsible for speech, and there’s this disorder they call aphasia caused by damage to that area. And some of the experiments they did to figure this out are fascinating. Like this one guy who could understand people perfectly well, but the only word he could actually say was ‘tan’, even though he seemed relatively intelligent. That reminded me of you.” Tim pauses. There’s a question he’s dying to ask, begging to come out of his mouth, but he’s suddenly afraid that he’ll be stepping over some unspoken boundary if he does. By Cass’s intense look, though, he knows that she knows that he wants to say something. There’s no backing out now.

“Just, out of curiousity...can you say anything at all? I mean, if you can’t form sentences, or even some words, I get why you pretend you can’t speak period, but is it just words or is it _sounds_ themselves you can’t do?”

A beat passes. An awkward beat, something Tim isn’t used to in Cass’ presence, and although she’s still staring at him, she doesn’t move to give any indication of an answer. Tim knows that nothing is glitching because someone passes in the background, behind Cass’ computer chair, their body gliding smoothly along.

He tries to shake it off. “That’s okay, you don’t have to tell me. Anyway, I was looking into the links between speech and dyslexia, and there aren’t any precedent cases like yours to go on, but there are at the very least vague links between all forms of language. I thought you’d want to know about it. There aren’t any known permanent treatment options or cures for aphasia yet, but every day is a step closer.” He doesn’t tell her about the proposal he’s been writing, an appeal to dedicate a new branch of research in DI (and, as is the long-term goal, WE) towards speech impairments. It doesn’t matter. The report won’t go anywhere, he’s not even going to mail it or show it to his parents. Not only does the research topic seem unprofitable, but despite how passionate he’s getting about it and how important he feels it is, all anyone will see when they look at him and his proposals is a twelve year old boy trying to wear big kid shoes.

He’s not sure why he’s writing it in the first place, but it’s another one those things that he just can’t shake from his head, something screaming at him that if it’s not important now then it will be later. It’s hard to explain outside of his own head.

Jay would know what he’s talking about.

Tim flinches. Cass notices. She frowns at him from the video feed. He ignores her in favour of quickly turning on his phone, because thinking of Jay reminds him of someone else, despite how hard he tried to distract himself with Cass and research. There’s an unread message idling there, sent five minutes ago.

_ >>shit, i cant remember his last name either _

_ <<Dammit. _

_ >>hey kid, i was just his mom’s dealer, ur his best friend _

Tim takes in a sharp breath, trying not to focus too hard on the words and not give any outward signs of his distress. When he looks back up to regard Cass’ expression, he knows immediately it didn’t work. “Sorry, I gotta go. See you later?”

She nods, gives him a simultaneously suspicious and worried glance in the way only someone whose main form of communication is facial expressions can master, and logs off.

_ <<I know. But how am I supposed to file a missing person’s report with half a name? _

_ >>u dont. have u checkd the orphanages? _

_ <<No. I was a little busy freaking out. _

Tim takes a deep breath to calm down, looks at the message he sent, and winces.

_ <<I’m sorry. I’m being rude. _

_ >>its ok dude. ur stressed. been there done that still doing that _

Despite first impressions, the person Tim has been texting has turned out to be surprisingly nice. Not particularly helpful in terms of information, but he’s genuinely trying, and has so far helped Tim keep his head on since he discovered Jay was missing a week ago better than anything else. It’s honestly a little odd, maybe even suspicious, but Tim refuses to look a gift horse in the mouth.

_ <<You mentioned that you’re looking for someone, too. Who? _

_ >>u shud check the orphanages first _

This isn’t new.

Tim logs out of Skype and swivels around in his computer chair to stare with a sluggish sort of apathy at the rest of his cluttered room. Empty water bottles are everywhere, and he can’t remember which ones he just opened and which ones have been left there for weeks. Entire outfits are strewn all over the floor, empty fruit roll up and twix wrappers conglomerate over his bed covers. He hardly notices any of it at this point -- an organised chaos.

His mother would have a heart attack if she saw it. Good thing she hasn’t been home in weeks.

Most of the mess has accumulated over the last few days. Tim can’t remember the last time, before now, that he _hadn’t_ put his clothes into the hamper. But at the present moment, all he really wants to do is just sink into his chair. He has to get dressed in order to go out into the city -- he has to figure out the locations of the orphanages, figure out what bus routes pass the closest bus stops and when and which bus stops those are, he has to pick out food to take with him. Tim doesn’t know how he never realised how _daunting_ Gotham truly is.

He goes to reply to his mystery messenger, if only to stall getting up. Normally, he would let John Doe (just John for short, as Tim has been calling him in his head) deflect. After all, it is the reason Tim has yet to even have a _name_ to call him by, but he’s feeling restless and frustrated and overwhelmed. He needs answers for just one thing in his life, and he’s content to start here.

_ <<I don’t know anything about you. I don’t even know your name. If you need to talk to someone, I’m the perfect candidate. We’re going through the same thing. You’re trying to help me, I want to try to help you, too. _

_ >>trust me, this is a bit more complicated than ur situation _

Tim tries to squash down his irritation.

_ <<How? _

He doesn’t get an answer until he’s already half-heartedly pulled on a sweater and jeans he found off the floor and is sitting on the end of his bed, yanking on his socks.

_ >>hes not just missing. he was taken. _

Tim stares at the message for a moment, eyebrows drawn together. His heart thumps hard in his chest, just once. He imagines Jay and feels chills creep down his arms.

_ <<Who? _

_ >>u can say hes like my brother _

_ >>something like that, anyway. depending on the definition. _

Tim bites his lip, shoves his feet into his sneakers and tries to think of something to say as he decides to forgo food and his backpack and just stuffs some bills his parents keep in the kitchen drawer in his socks (Jay taught him that). He begins typing as he boards the private elevator, but deletes the message immediately as John sends another.

_ >>he was kidnapped and nobody noticed. i didnt notice. _

_ >>not until it was too late and the trail turned cold, nothing the police or anyone like them can do _

_ <<...And you’re still looking? _

_ >>of course i am. no one else thinks hes still alive, but then again, no one else has the debt that I do. u wouldnt understand, but that kid...he deserves a lot more than me. its my fault. i took his life away from him. he deserves to have it back. _

* * *

Tim already knows what’s going to happen before he steps inside of the orphanage to locate the front desk. He isn’t exactly expecting to be mistaken as one of the orphans, but, well. Sometimes he feels like one anyway.

“Actually, uh, I’m not an orphan. I’m just here to ask if a kid by the name of Jay has been seen recently…?”

It’s only now that Tim realises he doesn’t really know if Jay is an orphan or not, and that just adds a whole other layer to complicated. He’s never mentioned a father or any aunts or uncles, but it’s still plausible. What if he isn’t even in Gotham anymore?

Somehow, that explanation for Jay’s whereabouts doesn’t feel right, though. Neither does this orphanage. Tim goes through five different people, each one handing him off to the next to deal with, before he eventually faces his last shark-toothed grin and ‘I don’t think so, honey’ before he’s booking it out of there as fast as he can.

_ <<Orphanages suck. _

_ >>better than nothing. probably. _

Tim doesn’t know if it’s his imagination or not, but something feels lighter now that he coaxed (disturbing, still confusing) answers out of John. He thinks that maybe he can start to detect some sort of humour through the texts, though black letters over multi-coloured chat bubbles are hardpressed to display any emotion at all.

_ <<I think I’m done with them. I’m getting nowhere. I’ve gone to every orphanage that appears on a Google search. _

_ >>u havnt tried foster care or cps or hospitals or the paper _

_ <<The paper? _

_ >>yup. theyve normally got missing persons stuff on the back, right? _

_ <<That’s if someone actually reports a missing person. The only ‘found’ stuff you’re going to see on the paper are ugly looking dogs. _

_ >>and cats _

_< <Gee, so helpful. _

_> >np. really tho, all of those are good places to look _

_< <I think I’d have better luck asking the Pope. _

_> >only if u pray hard enough _

Tim rolls his eyes and sits heavily on a bench with a resigned sigh. No, he isn’t about to go into every hospital in Gotham looking into every teenager’s room. Nor is he going to so much as attempt to work his way through the foster system -- he isn’t even sure if he’s allowed to, whether or not the locations of people in the system are classified. But he isn’t giving up. There just has to be a better way.

He squints at the magazine stand existing innocuously at the entrance to Robinson Park. He isn’t sure if he should entertain John’s idea, probably thrown out of thin air, but it’s not like he has anything better to do. He’s still reluctant, though, as if there’s the possibility of an invisible wall surrounding the green grass of the public park and if Tim steps up to it he’s going to smash right into it and break his nose. It’s like this every time he passes by the park, and he passes it by every day to the public bus stop. The entrance to the park is open to the end of the D-District, and the view can be seen from the penthouse. It’s supposed to look beautiful and expensive, with the hotel positioned so slightly and just tall enough so to overlook the shining reservoir and elegant trees of the park, the skyscrapers of the Fashion District gleaming like ice in the morning with splotches of light becoming the only visible stars at night, and the vast expanse of the Sound bordering it all. But when Tim sees it now, he only feels ill.

Tim remembers when he and Jay went exploring into the park for the first time. It was during their crusade to find Mrs. Duvall’s missing chickens, and he snorts every time he thinks of it because it was both the best and the most ridiculous thing he’s ever done. He wants to blame Jay for that, Tim doubts half the things he did he would have ever followed through on without Jay’s enthusiasm and penchant for getting stuck in dumb and impossible situations, but he thinks they just ended up riling each other up all the way until Jay took a dive into the reservoir. It was fun, possibly the most fun Tim’s ever had, and it makes the acid in his stomach and the blood behind his heart curdle and turn into something sour.

He rises sluggishly and makes his way over to the magazine stand, carefully skirting the many entrances into the park as he does so. The plump Italian man sitting there is flipping idly through the _Globe_. He doesn’t look up at Tim until Tim is grabbing a newspaper from the revolving stand off to the side, and that’s mainly to cock an eyebrow at it.

“The _Gazette?”_ he asks, shaking his head. “Used to be good. Vale’s turned that thing into another liberal’s gossip mag.” He raises the bundle in his hands. “The _Globe_ is where it’s at if you want some real news.”

Tim shrugs and flips open the mag anyway. He’s not feeling up to talking at the moment, his thoughts lethargic, unrelated, and generally uninterested in whatever the stand owner has to say. The man looks at him a moment longer, Tim can feel his gaze, before returning to his own paper.

True to the man’s word, the first article Tim opens to is an article by Vicki Vale on Wayne Enterprises. It’s eyecatching only for the fact that Tim knows, courtesy of hours spent combing online for news on Batman and Robin, that Vale is far from anyone particularly interested in the economics or business of Gotham. He spends a few seconds scanning through the page, but a few lines down and the whole story switches to an ‘inside peek’ on Bruce Wayne and Tim knows that the article isn’t truly any different from Vale’s usual stuff. He keeps unfolding the pages, but by the time he’s unfolded and turned every loose leaf, he’s found nothing worth reading and now all the pieces of the paper are unorganised and spread out to be as long as his torso. He clutches the paper in irritation and debates on just buying it so he doesn’t have to figure out how it all goes back together again.

An open palm juts into his peripheral vision, and Tim glances up to see the stand owner nodding at the paper in his hands. Tim slowly gives it over, and the man folds it all back together again with smooth precision. “What are you doing here anyway, kid? This stuff isn’t for you. You’ll understand it all when you’re older, there’s no rush.”

“I understand it fine right now,” Tim declares, but decides that he isn’t up to wasting his energy when the man just snorts and shakes his head. To spite him, Tim grabs a copy of the _Gotham Free Press_ when the owner turns around to put the paper on a shelf. He’s defiantly reading the first page when the man realises he has another in his hands.

To Tim’s surprise, he laughs. “You lookin’ for something?” he asks with a drawl signature to someone with too much time on their hands. It’s such a dramatic change from the Narrows, where Tim has spent most of his time searching. Here, between the shopping districts and the park, every day is a lazy day and every other person is a chirpy tourist.

“Some _one_ ,” Tim mutters absentmindedly, trying his best to juggle the loose papers on his arms and flip through the ones in his hands at the same time.

The man gives Tim an odd look. “In the paper?”

“No.” Tim doesn’t entirely know _what_ he’s looking for in the paper. A distraction, for the most part. Maybe he’ll find a different topic to search up later, something ramble to Cass about and use to ignore that look of hers that says she knows more than either of them are letting on.

The man nods and looks sympathetic. “That’s tough. Happened to my neighbour’s kid, too. Crazy how many people are just up and vanishing and nobody has yet to do anything about it. What good are the cops at this point anyway? Who knows, maybe that Batman figure will swoop in and save the day again. Chin up, kid. You’ll get them back.”

Tim doesn’t hear the words at first. He’s too busy staring at the missing persons ads at the back of the _Free Press._ But when what he says clicks, Tim looks up so fast that he feels a crick in his neck. It doesn’t deter him. “Huh?” he says, and instantly hates himself for sounding so lost. Everyone already thinks he’s just a dumb kid, he doesn’t have to sound like one too. He clears his throat because it doesn’t seem like the man heard him from where he’s turned away, giving cash back to another customer. He waits until he’s finished before continuing. “What do you mean, people vanishing?”

The man frowns. “You haven’t heard? It’s horrible. Everyone’s talking about it, but not really, you know? Not a single article I can find on it, and the cops are just calling it public paranoia after that last Scarecrow thing, but it’s not just paranoia that’s made that homeless woman on my corner disappear. She’s been there for years, and one day she’s just gone and no one knows where, and every week I see another flyer go up in the Coventry. That’s not just people being hysterical.” He shakes his head, a pained expression twisting his face. Pity. He regards Tim closely. “I don’t mean to scare you, kid. But you should get yourself home. Lock your doors and windows and tell your parents to get some decent security. I’m really sorry about your friend, but the only thing left to do now is wait. You won’t help them any by getting snatched up.”

The man tries to take the newspaper from Tim’s hands, but he just hands some money that probably was far over the price of the paper over and the man welcomes him to anything else around him. Tim grabs another paper from the revolving stand, not even bothering to check the headlines but desperate for something either distracting or informing -- he’ll be bored later, he’s sure -- and walks away in a daze.

He remembers John’s brother, mentally replaces him with Jay and suddenly feels nauseous. He whips out his phone and ignores his new unread messages, feeling his heart fluttering in his chest so quickly that he knows his fingers are going to be too shaky to respond. Instead, he goes to his messages and presses call.

“Alvin?” comes the rough voice of a man. Tim takes a deep breath and clutches his phone tighter, because it’s one thing to see messages on a screen and another entirely to hear them in the voice of a stranger. Tim wonders again what he’s gotten himself into. “You okay?”

“Uh--” Tim goes to say that he is, but bites his tongue. “I...I think Jay was kidnapped,” he says, keeping his voice low as he stares at every person passing him by on his way back to the hotel.

“What?” John asks in sudden alarm. “One sec.” The line becomes muffled for a moment as John shouts a, _‘touch those again and I’m stabbing you with them!’_ Tim’s eyes widen just in time to hear the sound of a door close as the line clears up. “Sorry about that. You think your friend was _kidnapped?_...Are you sure? I hate to say this, but is it possible you could be just jumping to conclusions?”

Tim tries to think about his response carefully, really, but he’s already high strung and feels ready to scream. “I can’t find him anywhere, John. And...apparently people have been going missing lately. Kids, homeless people...What if Jay is one of them? What if he was--”

“...Did you just call me John?” John says, cutting him off.

  
“Yes. As in, John Doe,” Tim snaps.

John snorts but doesn’t correct him. “Look, are you sure it isn’t just people being, well, people? Gotham is kind of a crazy place. Have the police said anything about it?”

“You don’t believe me,” says Tim incredulously. He’s so shocked that he abruptly stops walking, causing someone with a shopping bag to knock into him and glare. He ignores her and inches to the side in order to lean against a display window.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You meant it. Seriously?” erupts Tim. Anxiety is making his chest tight and raising his voice. “After everything? You said that no one believes you, that no one will help you find your brother, so what? You’re just going to turn around and try to do the same to me? What a fantastic help, you freaking hypocrite!”

He gets more stares from passers-bys, and Tim swears some of them are sympathetic. That only makes him angrier as he pants into the phone, trying to keep his other hand steady by curling it into a fist.

A reply comes after just enough time that Tim is contemplating hanging up. “You’re right,” John says. “It’s just that…” he pauses, clearly unsure of how to say his next words, which makes Tim listen with rapt attention. “How old are you?” When Tim doesn’t immediately answer, he continues. “I knew you had to be a little younger than me, but you sound really, really young, and can you even _say_ fuck?”

“How old are _you_?” Tim counters.

Another pause. “I can vote.”

Tim decides to answer accordingly. “I can’t.” He can hear a breathy laugh from the other end. It’s nice, and serves to calm Tim down a little, because he’s starting to get very suspicious with how cryptic the other man is being and maybe Tim should have gotten suspicious a little earlier, but he hasn’t been very smart about his decisions the last week, for lack of better words. “What does my age have to do with any of this?”

“...It doesn’t, I guess. Not really. Sorry.”

Tim takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. He counts to five. “So do you believe me or not?”

“I believe you. But kid, I’ve got experience in losing people, not finding them.” There’s a sigh. “Did you read my texts?”

Tim lifts the phone away from his ear briefly to look at his flashing messages. “No. One sec.” He barely glances at them for a moment before he’s slamming the phone back against his ear. “You’re _leaving?”_ After all this? When Tim needs someone who’s at least a little familiar with what to do the most?

“It’s just for a week, promise. I have a lead on my own missing person. I think...I think this is the one, Al.”

They take a few moments to let that sink in.

“But, why can’t you use your phone?” Tim presses finally.

“Ever heard of Bialya?”

“Of course.” Who hasn’t, after that scandal where the ruler tried to trick the ruler of the one next to it into completely handing over all its land? It’s the only country that both the Justice League and the American government agree on closely monitoring traffic to and from, so long as Queen Bee is still the monarch anyway. Every time Middle Eastern politics or social issues comes up in the news, everyone loves to remind the public about Bialya.

“Then you probably know that they don’t really like American visitors. Especially not me,” John chuckles softly as if he said something funny. “That’s where my lead is. So I have to go completely radio silent. I’m guessing that your crusade to find your friend consists of a one-man army?”

“I thought only the military was allowed in Bialya,” Tim accuses.

“And reporters,” John says, as if that’s somehow significant. “You didn’t answer my question.”

“I haven’t answered a lot of your questions,” Tim points out, but relents. “...Yeah, it’s just me.” The truth is chilling. He wants to curl up and call his parents and ask them to help him, do something, make everything okay and find Jay. Parents _always_ know what to do, right? But if he tells them about Jay… He can’t.

Besides, he’s not sure if they’ll pick up the phone. His mother likes to put it on silent when they go on expeditions.

“Don’t,” John demands, more passionate than Tim is expecting.

“What?”

“Not alone. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into. I knew exactly what I was getting myself into when I started off, but I still got my ass handed to me, again and again. You’re just a… Christ, promise me you won’t go out there until I get back.”

“What’s the point?” accuses Tim. “You’re some guy I don’t know who is too far away to be any sort of backup.” Or partner. No, that’s Jay’s job. It’s Tim’s responsibility and his responsibility alone to find him.

“When I get back, I _swear_ that I’ll contact my friend over in Gotham again. Trust me, he’s a great guy, and a fantastic one to have at your side and he won’t rest until you two find Jay again. He’s not there right now, but he will be in a few days. You just need to hold out until….Tuesday. Give me until Tuesday and then you can set out, and you won’t be alone or get yourself killed, alright? Deal?”

“Yeah. Deal,” Tim says quietly.

“Good, good. Okay, uh, shit, I need to catch my flight, but I’ll call you Tuesday. Stay safe, kid,” John says, and then hangs up in a hurry.

Tim stares numbly at the screen of his phone.

He’s already wasted enough time. A week is too long now that he _knows_ Jay isn’t safe, wherever he is. Whatever he’s going to do, he needs to do it now. He can’t rely on someone who won’t trust Tim enough to give him his name.

He stuffs his phone back into his pocket, takes a deep breath, counts to ten on the exhale, and trudges back home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to note that the part where Tim reminisces about chasing missing chickens around Gotham with Jay? Yeah, that's a thing that happens and is going to happen and is going to be an actual separate story in this verse. Pure fluff. I'm so excited to write it, so keep a look out!
> 
> Can anyone guess who our John Doe is?
> 
> Also, anyone frustrated with Tim yet? Because you will be.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this chapter was a lot longer than it ended up being. However, thank whatever deity you all believe in for the return of my writing muse. I was hoping it could have been back in time for the New Year, but this isn't bad either, because now I have so many plot bunnies I want to run with.
> 
> (Also, my doctor!Tim fic has gotten so much popularity that I'm planning another soon, probably before the next update of this. So keep a look out!)
> 
> Are you guys excited to read this update? I'm excited for you guys to read this update. Because guess what? I finally, finally give you what you all have been waiting for...

Tim finds that it’s much harder to get up the next day then it has any right to be.

Normally, he’d roll over, blurry eyed and hating life just a little bit, to blink at a text from John asking if he’d heard anything yet -- as if Tim was out and about in Gotham at one-thirty in the morning. It was like John never slept.

But now, there’s nothing to figuratively kick his ass out of bed, and he keeps setting his alarm back five minutes, ten minutes, thirty minutes and before he knows it, he’s staring at the ceiling at 10:30AM instead of the 8:00AM that he had originally intended. Still, there’s a magnetic lethargy dragging his limbs into his mattress, gluing him in place (even as he thinks about how Jay needs his help, he needs to get up because  _ Jay needs him). _

It takes a few minutes of sighs and groans, but Tim eventually manages to roll himself out of bed, hanging his head as he sits at the edge and takes a deep breath that’s becoming so signature to him lately.

Where to start?

After all that effort to get up, Tim flops back down and forces himself to review everything he knows and has. It’s not much. He knows that people are going missing. He knows that the police won’t do anything about it and the media doesn’t consider it big news or anything particularly unusual. To be honest, it’s not. But with the thought of Jay being one of those people, Tim feels sick to his stomach at the thought of such a situation being written off as ‘normal’.

It’s this passionate anger that takes Tim straight to the 10th precinct down the block that day. He doesn’t particularly know what he’s going to do, he’s thinking of just marching up to the front desk and demanding an audience with someone, maybe the captain, when he sees a man in a suit and tie with a detective’s shield idling against a patrol car parked on the street, taking a cigarette out from his inner coat pocket.

The man gives Tim a cursory glance as he approaches, finds nothing particularly interesting, and ignores him in favor of his light.

“What’s wrong with you?” Tim demands and, wow. That is not what he had intended to have come out of his mouth. He tries to mentally backtrack, find a more polite way of starting this conversation before too much damage can be made, but he shouldn’t have bothered. The detective doesn’t even notice him.

Tim scowls. Apparently, the detective doesn’t believe anything could be wrong with him. Or he just didn’t hear Tim. Oddly enough, the latter offends Tim more.

“Excuse me, sir,” Tim says, consciously pitching his voice louder. The detective’s eyes flick up.from where he’s cupping the end of his cigarette. His eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything until he’s put the lighter away and taken the personification of cancer away from his lips.

“What can I do for ya, kiddo?”

Tim instantly regrets addressing him as sir. “I was wondering what the police are doing to try and address the influx of missing person’s reports.”

The detective blinks once, twice. His lips twitch, and his belly bounces when he laughs. It’s not a particularly nice laugh. It grates on Tim’s ears and he fights to keep his neutral expression when the detective blows smoke out of his mouth -- he turns away from Tim, but the wind brings the smoke right into Tim’s face anyway. “Right down to business, aren’tcha? We’re doin’ what we always do -- keep ‘em pinned ‘til we find the person, call the family up and reunite lost ones. You a reporter?” He sounds entertained. Tim wonders, not for the first time, what it is about adults that makes them think everything Tim says is funny. Or maybe it’s just the questions they can’t answer that makes them laugh.

“So the force is making no extra efforts to accommodate for the rise in reports lately?”

“What’re you gettin’ at, kid?”

“Just whether or not you’re willing to admit there’s a problem with people disappearing in Gotham. What is it -- you can’t believe that there’s an issue, or you just don’t want to admit that you don’t know what it is?”

The detective pauses for a long time, staring at Tim like he’s never seen such audacity in his life. Tim is both a little miffed and a little proud of that. “Kid, there is definitely a problem with kidnapping in this city, and right now it’s no more or less than usual,” he scowls, finally. “Which is exactly why you should be mindin’ yer own business in yer own home. Where’re yer parents?” He looks up and around like Tim’s parents are going to pop out from behind a parked car at any moment.

Also, why does everyone have a fixation with calling Tim ‘kid’? It’s like they’re trying to remind someone of the fact. Maybe themselves?

“I want to see the list of missing persons,” Tim declares.

“Excuse me?” the detective exclaims, incredulity and anger flushing his face in equal measures.

“Someone has to care about these people, and it’s obviously not going to be the police. I want their names and their addresses,” he continues.

“I could go on and  _ on  _ about how  _ illegal  _ that is, but I’ll just say this,” the detective spits, leaning forward. “ _ No.”  _ Tim immediately recoils, but less at his tone and more at how  _ rancid  _ his breath smells.

Although, Tim would be a liar if he didn’t admit that the detective is pretty scary. It’s why Tim flounders for something to say long enough for another cop to walk up to the car. He gives them both a befuddled look, pauses, before he seems to decide that it’s not his problem and gets into the driver’s side of the parked car. The sour detective aggressively pops open the passenger door, forcing Tim to step aside in order to make room. “Do us all a favor and  _ get lost,  _ scrap _.  _ Get yerself a new hobby or something.”

Tim watches them pull away. To be fair, he wasn’t expecting much. He doesn’t even fully know why he demanded to see the missing person’s list. He hadn’t thought about the legality of it, but it makes sense that the personal information of the potential victims might be censored. Apparently, he hasn’t been watching enough Criminal Minds.

But he’s still at a dead end, and he needs to find someone who might have more information regarding someone else’s disappearance. He needs a few things, actually, including a bracket of time where it can be assumed that the disappearances started -- but without the media on the case and the police refusing to release information, Tim doesn’t know if it’s possible that he could figure that out.

Maybe the detective is right, and Tim needs a new hobby. But this is so much more important than a hobby. He thinks about Jay and grits his teeth and tries to focus more on what he does have that he can use to his advantage.

A few minutes later he takes off full tilt for Robinson Park.

 

* * *

 

Tim feels…

Weird, is probably the right word for it. Strange. Marginally creepy. Or maybe really creepy? He doesn’t know what the criteria is for being considered a stalker and it’s suddenly a priority to find out.

He’s not stalking, anyway. He’s sitting. Stalking is a term used to describe a type of forward movement.

He presses his phone closer to his face.

Right now, Tim is sitting on a boulder marking one of the many entrances to the park, looking at the back of the magazine stand he had been at just the other day. He can’t see the man sitting at it from here, but that’s the point. If he can’t see the man, the man can’t see him.

He’s waiting for him to pack up and go home.

A person passes by and frowns at him weirdly for how he’s looking off into the distance, not paying any attention to the phone that’s being held up to his face with a black screen. Tim turns it back on and tries to make the movement natural. He almost drops his phone, but he thinks it goes fairly well.

He wonders if he looks ridiculous in his sleeveless hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head. Probably, particularly because it’s summer and it isn’t raining for once. The fact that it’s summer is the only reason he chose a sleeveless hoodie, one he didn’t even own until an hour ago. A long jacket would have been detrimental to the whole ‘don’t be noticed or recognised’ thing.

When the man finally finishes packing up, the sun is almost finished setting. He locks up shop, collecting valuables into a bag to take with him. He lingers for a few minutes, presumably to finish recording earnings, before he’s started off at a leisurely pace headed northwest.

Tim has spent the last few hours internally chanting that he has no idea what he’s doing (and mildly freaking out because his phone is at 11% and what is he supposed to pretend to be doing when it dies?) but the moment he gets up with the intent to follow, apart from the minor paranoia he has that comes with trying not to be noticed, he feels almost at ease. It should be an alarming feeling on its own. But all Tim can think about is how he used to follow Batman and Robin around just like this, even when he couldn’t really find them. He has no ill intentions, and reminding himself of that is what makes him relax the guilt he feels at following a stranger home. 

He briefly wonders what Batman and Robin are doing now, and if they know about the disappearances. He wants to say that they do, they must, but there’s a dubious feeling in his chest that suggests Tim is alone in this.

The magazine stand owner lives in an apartment complex on the west side. It makes figuring out which neighbour it is that he had referred to earlier significantly harder. Tim waits until the man enters 15B on the second floor, the entire complex thankfully having outside entrances, before he moves to sit on the curb with a huff.

It’s pitch black outside. He hopes he remembers his way home after this. The streets are silent except for the occasional car passing and headlights flashing behind him, and the enclosed parking lot Tim is occupying is deathly still, with not a whisper of a summer breeze to rustle the bushes. The night hasn’t brought with it any cool relief. Despite the absence of sun, the humidity signature to Gotham lingers like an unwelcome but persistent guest. It’s a little ridiculous, Tim thinks, with how close they are to the Gotham River.

He gets up eventually and decides to try the door underneath 15B first, 3A, due to it being the closest. His knock is hesitant, but when no one comes to answer he knocks again slightly louder, startling himself with the volume of it in the stillness of the night around him. There’s the sound of footsteps and then a pause where Tim assumes they’re looking through the peephole, followed by the jingle of a deadbolt being undone. The door is slowly swung open to reveal a heavyset, plump woman. There’s the sound of a cartoon playing from somewhere within the apartment. “Hi, honey,” the woman says, sounding sweet but looking cautious. She pokes her head out to look further outside and around, as if someone might pop out of the bushes. She inches back into her apartment and frowns at him.

“Uh, hi,” Tim stutters, takes a deep breath -- and pauses. He has no idea how he’s supposed to broach the subject. The woman is starting to look very, very worried.

“Where are your parents?” she asks, before Tim can continue.

Tim shakes his head. “They’re at home. I...my friend was reported missing a while ago and I didn’t hear about it until now but I can’t remember which apartment his family lives in...” he says, trying to seem as sad and sheepish as possible. “Can you...do you know which door that is? I’m sorry for bothering you, I just…”

“Sam’s a friend of yours?” she asks, not looking very convinced. Maybe this Sam character is older than Tim thought? But her expression turns back to one of caution soon enough. “You’re looking for 16B, just up those stairs there and to the right. I sure hope you’re not running with the same crowd as him, sweetheart. You’re so young still. Spare your mother the heartbreak,” She shakes her head in pity and nods towards the stairs.

“Uh, yeah, sure. Thanks,” Tim says awkwardly, turning to walk up the stairs, pretending not to notice the woman watching him the entire way up.

It’s only when he’s standing in front of 16B, staring at the grime-covered silver of the plaque, that Tim notices the blood roaring in his ears. He takes a deep breath to try and still his nerves, will his fingers to stop shaking, and knocks on the door before he can talk himself out of it.

When the door opens by the smallest of slivers, it’s by a ruffled 3ft boy in Superman pajamas, which Tim can only barely see through the practically microscopic space the boy has left for himself to peer through. When he sees someone who’s only a foot taller than him, the boy relaxes enough to swing the door the rest of the way open. And stares.

Tim realises that he should be talking and rushes to introduce himself, “Hi, I’m...Alvin and I…” he pauses. “Are your parents here?” he asks instead, but honestly, if he doesn’t know how to explain himself to a sleepy eight year old, he shouldn’t try explaining himself to an adult.

“No,” the boy says. “But Sam already left.”

Tim opens his mouth before the boy’s words even register, ready to formulate a half-assed explanation for his nosiness. When he finally hears what was said, he pauses. “He did?” Tim says instead, because the way the boy is looking at him makes it seem like he already knows who Tim is, and whatever explanation the boy has for Tim being there is probably better than whatever Tim could come up with.

“Yeah. He’s probably waiting for you,” answers the boy, moving to shut the door.

“Wait!” Tim protests. He stutters briefly in a hurried attempt to improvise when the door halts. “I forgot the address. Do you have it written down somewhere?”

The boy huffs, like he can’t believe Tim could be so stupid, and looks vaguely annoyed. “Mom doesn’t like it when Sam’s friends come over.”

Tim is starting to get an idea of what this Sam person is like. He adopts the most pleading expression that he can muster. “It’ll just be for a second. She won’t even know.”

The boy stops, looks over his shoulder to the rest of his house like his parents will pop out from behind a corner at any moment, and shrugs. “Whatever,” he dismisses, and walks away from the door. Tim tentatively steps inside and shuts the door softly behind him.

The entryway is short, maybe five feet long, and narrowed considerably by a shoe rack on the left. Tim hesitates at it, unsure if he should take off his shoes, but eventually decides that an eight year old probably won’t care. He drags his feet across the entry mat anyway.

Peering into the rest of the house in a vain attempt to spot where the boy went, he can see a longer corridor perpendicular to the door that spans the entire length of the apartment, which really isn’t much. The length of the whole thing, including the room at the end where the door is open, is probably the length of his kitchen, even if it’s wider. The carpet is a dirty beige and there are holes in the shape of fists in the off-white walls, but there’s a flat screen TV in the living room.

Tim hears a door shut and turns his head to look at the room across from him. The boy thrusts an iPad into his face. “Tell him to stop using my iPad when he doesn’t want mom to know what he’s doing,” he scowls. “It’s annoying.”

“So,” Tim begins as he takes the iPad and the boy walks off a few feet to plop onto a couch in the living room. “Uh, if you know where he is, why was he reported missing?”

The boy rolls his eyes. Tim can hear the roar of a car engine coming through the phone that he’s intently staring at. “ _ Mom  _ reported him missing. He always says he’s gonna run away, so she freaked out and called the police and stuff.”

The iPad is open to iMessages. Tim begins scanning the recent conversations, deducing that the ones spammed with emojis and Star Wars memes don’t belong to Sam. “And you didn’t show them this?”

“They didn’t ask,” comes the petulant reply. “They wouldn’t listen to me, anyway. And Sam didn’t want me to.”

Tim concedes that he’s okay with that, if only for the fact that he wouldn’t be getting this information if the kid had handed it to the police. He scrolls down to a conversation made a week ago and clicks it, quickly reading over the blue and white text bubbles.

He stares at the last message and tries to fit this in with the picture he’s trying to piece together. Do the missing people go willingly? Is this part of a manipulative scheme, and that’s why the police don’t recognise it as an organised event at all? Or is Tim completely off his mark, and this whole thing is an issue caused by a runaway teen and is an overall waste of time?

Tim frowns and remembers what the boy said about his mother. No, it won’t be a waste of time if he can manage to find Sam and take his name off the missing list. And who knows? Maybe Tim will find clues about the others in the meanwhile. It’s not like he has anything better to do.

Plus, these text messages sound vague and sketchy and Tim has never been known to stay away from that. He takes out his own phone and takes a picture of them. “The person your brother was talking to mentioned the docks. Did he say which ones?”

The boy stares at him incredulously. “How should I know? The docks as in the docks like, a ten minute walk away, or something. He goes there when he picks me up from school sometimes.”

Tim feels supremely awkward, standing in the middle of an unfamiliar hallway sifting through a stranger’s iPad. More than that, though, he feels guilty. He shouldn’t be here, lying about who he is to gain access to an apartment when a little kid is at home alone. “Okay, I think I know where that is. Thanks...man,” Tim says, stammering uncertainly at the end in an attempt to prevent asking the kid for his name. He sets the iPad down gently on the arm of the couch and walks to the door. “Remember to lock this behind me,” he uncomfortably advises the eight year old still lounging on the couch. “Also, don’t respond the next time someone knocks. You don’t know who it could be.”

Now the child is looking at him suspiciously. Tim seizes his chance for escape and slips out as swiftly as he can.

 

* * *

Being that Gotham is a little island surrounded entirely by water, anyone who walks far enough for long enough is going to end up at some sort of dock eventually, with the exception of the Kane Sound, Sheldon Park, and other places where keeping boats would just be impractical. The longest stretch of docks, though, has to be Dixon Docks. It loops down from the Coventry all the way around Chinatown, down the entire west side of the city. Therefore, if anyone tells you they’ll be ‘at the docks’, they’re probably trying to avoid you, because there’s no way to tell the specific location of a dock without a street name.

Tim perhaps takes the boy’s directions too literally, but it’s all he has to go on. With a quick Google search he manages to find the elementary school the younger kid must have been referring to and then walks directly west from there, keeping a steady walking pace and checking the time periodically to ensure he doesn’t walk for more than ten minutes. He chose his direction wisely, because by the time exactly nine minutes have passed, he’s looking through a gate at empty shipping crates bordering what has to be some sort of warehouse, flanked by a stretch of docks devoid of all but two ships.

The yard is utterly lifeless.

Tim locates a hole in the wire gate anyway and wiggles his way through, squinting at his surroundings. The text messages on the iPad had been sent three days ago. Three days is more than enough time for someone to move around, but why had Sam come here in the first place? What is there for a teenager in an empty shipping dock?

Maybe it hadn’t been empty three days ago? It’s hard to tell. Tim would have to find some sort of record book to see what ships had been docked that day, but he wouldn’t even know where to begin. In the end, he decides to get up from his perch and wander around. The night isn’t humid this time around, not like the day was, and the water had brought with it a sort of breeze. Tim doesn’t know what he’s looking for anymore, but it would be a shame if he left before he really had at least a glance around.

It doesn’t take long for his observation of the yard to morph into repetitive motions that eventually suck Tim back into his own head, hardly paying much attention to the scuff of his shoes on the silent ground. That is, until he reaches the thought-to-be-abandoned warehouse. All of a sudden, though more likely the change was gradual and Tim was just too distracted to notice, the ground is no longer silent, and Tim freezes as he stares at the door of the dilapidated building.

“Look, y’need a twenty? Here, take a twenty. Why not? Yer part of the crew now, man,” comes the voice of a man, and before Tim can really  _ think  _ about what he’s doing, he’s already inching towards the warehouse entrance. “That’s what we do out ‘ere. Take care’a our own. Right?”

“Right, right,” another voice parrots back.

“Good, that’s good. Now look, I got this with me, it’s a nice hunk of the good stuff from down south. I’m trustin’ you to do with it what I toldja, yeah? ‘Member what I toldja?”

“Yeah.”

Tim peers into the window of the warehouse and sees nothing. He’s staring through it in bewilderment for a moment before he decides that maybe he’ll have better luck looking through the window on the right side of the building. But as he’s scurrying to do just that, he sees movement from the corner of his eye, and darts back to his original position in time to register that the voices he’s hearing aren’t coming from the warehouse, they’re coming from between the shipping crates.

“Cool. ‘cause if you don’t do it right, and y’scam me, then the boss man gets mad. And when he’s mad, I’m mad. Got that?”

“Yeah.”

Tim can only make out dark blue jeans, slung low on the hips, and a loose belt from where he’s crouched. Just the slightest sliver of someone’s backside. But it isn’t enough, and he’s cautiously inching forward, trying to be as silent as possible, but he’s so concentrated on being silent and watching to make sure he isn’t seen that he doesn’t notice the wooden plank beneath his feet until he stumbles over it, accidentally kicking it into another crate. It makes a cringeworthy  _ thud. _

The conversation stops.

“Huh. Y’hear that?”

“You. Check it out. Think it’s from back there. Weather like this, it sure ain’t the fuckin’ wind.”

Tim, admittedly, panicks. He’s not used to being  _ caught.  _ He can think quickly and carefully while he’s trying to remain silent, or following a target, but thinking on his feet when he’s already given himself away is a whole new area entirely, and he backtracks so quickly that he crashes into another crate and why are there so many crates and  _ when did his life become such a cliche? _

Tim would say that the Jewish kids always die in horror movies, but he’s never seen a Jewish kid in a horror movie so it doesn’t hold the same weight.

_ “Shit,”  _ comes the curse. Tim agrees, honestly. For a second he even thinks that he’s the one who says it, because he’s certainly thinking it, but then he remembers that he never opened his mouth. There’s no time to dwell on that anyway because all of a sudden he’s being hoisted into the air. He  _ does  _ open his mouth this time, ready to scream or something like that, he’s not entirely sure, but it immediately gets clamped shut.

Tim stares quietly, eyes wide as saucers, as the men below him (toting guns, Tim notes with horror) pass by the warehouse he’s currently on top of, none the wiser to what’s just above their heads. He’s stiff as a statue when the hand over his mouth is used to spin him around.

“What in the hell do you think--” his assailant/saviour/kidnapper starts, but if he says anything else then Tim has already missed it because his whole world just sort of  _ stops  _ at the sight of a black and white mask.

A black and white mask, complimenting a red and black and yellow outfit, all sleek leather and kevlar, scuffed and torn in places but shining like new, and wind-whipped curly hair that’s a mess around his ears, one of which has a small black device nestled inside that Tim can only barely see from his angle.

_ “Robin,”  _ he breathes, mouth agape. “You’re...you’re Robin.” He pauses for a moment. “You  _ saved me.” _

Robin freezes, his hands still clutching Tim’s shoulders as if ready to shake him for his stupidity. Tim kind of wants to shake himself for his stupidity, too. He doesn’t mind the contact, though it makes the entire thing more surreal, not only seeing but  _ feeling  _ that Robin, the Boy Wonder, the focus of so many of his photos and childish wonders and fantasies, the name pinned all over his corkboard and spoken about in so many tabloids and newspapers and forums, is right here in front of him. Breathing the same air as him. Looking at him, really  _ seeing  _ him, for the first time.

Robin doesn’t reply. His lips are slightly parted, like a mildly befuddled fish, and his eyebrows are scrunched up like he’s looking at something impossible.

Then, before Tim can properly prepare for it, he’s being dragged forward into a frankly aggressive hug. And, well. Robin is  _ strong.  _ Tim’s ribs feel too compressed for him to suck in a good breath, and the hug lasts a touch too long.

“I--uh. Hi. Uhm.” Tim stammers out. “I can’t--can’t breathe. Air. I need--”

“Sorry!” Robin exclaims, dropping the hug but not pulling away. “Jesus...jesus, what are  _ you  _ doing here?”

The emphasis turns Tim defensive, as he’s not quite sure what Robin means by that and is not entirely certain he wants to find out. He wants to ask about the hug, but Robin’s most recent response takes precedence. “Because I can be. I’m not part of...whatever that is, if you’re wondering.” He also sort of wants Robin to hug him again, because wow. A hug. From  _ Robin.  _ Tim hardly even likes hugs, but this is  _ Robin.  _ Tim has been wanting to meet him his whole life. He…

He squints. “You’re not Robin.”

Robin stiffens. “What,” he deadpans.

“I know what Robin looks like. You don’t look like him. And you’re shorter. And your pants are different. And you sound different.”

There’s a charged silence, where Robin remains deathly still. His fingers tighten almost painfully on Tim’s shoulders, and when Tim frowns, the Boy Wonder seems to snap back to himself. He lets go of Tim like Tim’s skin had electrocuted him and backs away.

They stare at each other. Surprisingly enough, Robin is the one to break eye contact first. He tilts his head up to the sky and drags a hand through his hair, then slowly down his face.

_ “Fuck.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jason. Thank you for that great choice of word. It's very accurate. /You are officially now supremely fucked/.
> 
> (Side note: In case anyone thought that the detective was a really weird and out-of-place choice for an OC, it’s because he isn’t an OC. Meet Detective Harvey Bullock! He’s just a big ol’ ray of sunshine, isn’t he?)
> 
> Here's to hoping I didn't lose too many readers in the long transition chapters featuring absolutely no Jason! Hopefully it was worth the wait? c:
> 
> (This chapter is currently unedited because I was just too god-darned pumped to get it posted. I'll worry about grammar and sentence fluency later.)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stayed up way too late to finish this and I honestly still feel too exhausted to do much more than a half-assed proofread, so if there are any glaringly obvious mistakes, I apologise and feel free to point them out. But I NEEDED to post this because holy shit, it's been two months.
> 
> I really have nothing else to say (looong author's note is at the end) other than I'm sorry. You guys rock. I've been hit with a horrible writer's block, but reread everyone's comments on the last few chapters for the last few days really made me kick my ass into gear, so thank you. <3
> 
> I made it extra long for y'all. Almost 6,000 words. You're welcome.
> 
> Enjoy!

Things move quickly after that.

Tim has barely registered that Robin swears a lot more than he thought he would when the boy is already reaching up into his ear to tap the black device nestled inside. “No, everything’s good. ...They heard me and got spooked. Yeah. Sorry.” His expression twists up into something weird, and he turns just slightly to keep Tim in his peripheral.

To Tim he says, “Stay here.” He climbs to the edge of the roof and is about to jump off when he seems to second guess himself and adds, “Please?”

It takes Tim a moment to realise that he’s waiting for a response. “Uh, sure,” he says awkwardly, and then Robin is gone. He knows that the Boy Wonder isn’t going to hit the ground, but he still can’t quite stop himself from running to the edge to make sure.

What he sees makes him pause and then immediately duck down to ensure he isn’t seen. He grasps uselessly for the camera that isn’t hanging from his neck before compromising and taking out his phone, peeking it over the ledge and attempting to snap a few shots.

Robin is circling around two men still cursing up a storm, winding their way through the maze of shipping containers. Tim is just high enough to be able to see it from a slightly altered, almost-bird’s eye view, and he can see the boy sneak up to the container behind them. Tim takes more shots as Robin uses his grappling wire to shoot up to the top of the container and land heavily, his boots  _ thunk _ -ing against the metal. The two men whirl around.

“Hey, boys!” Robin calls, and hardly finishes his greeting before shots are ringing out. Tim’s chest seizes up for a moment only to realise that Robin has already disappeared from their line of sight, back over the edge of the container.

The men blocked from the sight by the other shipping containers are drawn to the commotion and begin making their way to the two trigger-happy men, Robin already leaps and bounds away from them. He disappears around a corner of the warehouse when Tim’s attention is caught by something on the opposite side of the yard, and he starts to notice a shadowy figure creeping around the corner towards the group when Robin appears on the ledge right in front of him. “Ack!” Tim yelps in surprise, tripping as he rapidly backtracks, falling onto his tailbone. He groans and twists a bit to rub at it.

Robin, at the very least, looks apologetic. “Sorry,” he says, quickly hopping off the ledge in order to join Tim. “You shouldn’t have been looking over the roof. What if someone saw you?” The vigilante frowns and sits down, crossing his legs beside Tim instead of offering a hand to help him up.

“No one saw  _ you _ ,” Tim protests weakly, staring intently at Robin. Robin only offers a shrug in response.

It’s awkward. As much as Tim doesn’t mind getting company from his idol, he can’t help but wonder  _ why  _ his idol is keeping him company. After all, the dynamic duo isn’t particularly known for sticking around. “Uh, was that Batman down there?”

“Yeah,” Robin says, still not meeting Tim’s eyes. “I’m usually just distraction. Round ‘em up for Bats and all.”

“I know.”

Robin doesn’t even looked surprised. 

“I’m Tim,” Tim says finally in another sad attempt to break the ice. He holds out his hand. Robin stares at it like it’s some alien thing, which makes Tim embarrassed enough that he almost takes it back, but before he can Robin clasps it in his gloved grip. He opens his mouth, ready to quip something, before apparently rethinking his words.

“Nice to meet you,” he says. “So, Tim, what are you doing over here so late?”

“It’s not that late,” protests Tim.

“It has to be at least past your bedtime.”

“I don’t have a bedtime.”

The corner of Robin’s mouth twitches as he concedes defeat. He tilts his head towards Tim. “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Tim considers his options, but eventually decides that there’s no harm in telling Robin what he’s here for. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“His name is Sam. I don’t actually know his last name, but he went missing a while ago. He either ran away or was kidnapped, and this is his last known location,” Tim says.

Robin looks at him for an uncomfortably long moment. “So...how exactly did you make the leap from runaway to abductee?” He looks a cross between genuinely interested and fondly amused, but the whiff of possibility that Robin might be laughing at him has Tim bristling.

“Because with as many kidnappings as there seems to be lately, you can’t rule out any possibility,” he snaps, sick of people automatically writing him off.

Robin tenses at the aggression in Tim’s tone. “Hey, I agree with you. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you mad or anything,” he apologises quickly, putting his hands up, and Tim immediately feels bad.

“I’m sorry too. I guess… Well, it doesn’t matter anyway,” he says, fisting his hands nervously and wishing he had long sleeves to play with. “I didn’t find Sam here. I hope I didn’t get in your way.”

Robin shrugs. “Nah, you were fine. Batman doesn’t know you’re here and  _ I’m  _ definitely not mad. Bats is probably gonna give me a lecture later about stealth, though.” He gives a grin to demonstrate how much he seemingly doesn’t care.

Tim frowns. “Did he blame the noise on you?”

“I blamed the noise on me,” dismisses the other boy quickly. “Trust me, not worth getting you in trouble. He’ll just ask a bunch of questions and keep you around until forever, and you should probably be getting back home before somebody notices you’re gone.”

Tim thinks about his home, cold because the nanny -- a woman who only comes at six pm every night to cook him dinner before leaving to cook for her own children -- keeps setting the thermostat to 68 from Tim’s 75, and loud only when his footsteps echo on the linoleum. “Probably,” he says.

* * *

Tim finds that the red and blue lights of police cruisers are comforting, in a way. Of course, they’re still terrifying -- Tim _ is _ currently trespassing, and even if he weren’t, just seeing an officer is enough for him to feel like he’s done something wrong. But while he’s gotten used to the chilliness and loneliness of Gotham’s streets at night, the way the colours bounce off the metal containers and get distorted by reflections in glass create a bubble that Tim feels attracted to. A safety blanket. Not because of the officers, but because of the presence of people themselves, of bright lights and human voice. A safety blanket, then, not from the criminals that lurk on the streets, but rather, the darkness that lurks in cracks of asphalt.

As far as he knows, Robin has long since left the area. He had jumped off the roof when the sirens first came into earshot, saying something about how he needed to meet up with 'Bats', and left Tim alone. By the time Tim had located the roof stairs and made his way to the bottom floor of the warehouse, the shipyard was lit up in flashing red and blue. He doesn’t exactly want to leave yet, which is weird. He’s reluctant to venture out into the streets after the whole catastrophe of gunshots and screams that had occurred. Instead, he slides down the wall of the warehouse and tucks his knees under his chin, hoping the officers won’t notice him. He can’t quite leave yet, anyway. Vehicles are dividing the street from the shipyard fence, and some cops are still loitering beside them. Tim has to wait until they either leave or get distracted before he can try slipping away. So, with nothing better to do, he curls himself into a ball and opens his ears to the sounds of the not-so-abandoned yard.

The loudest voice is that of a police detective beside the alley entrance on the farthest opening from the shipping containers, behind the fence. She’s short and has a ponytail, but that’s the most Tim had spotted of her before he had tucked himself deeper behind his corner to avoid detection. She’s beside her car, the doors closed, with the back window rolled down so that she can talk to the handcuffed boy on the other side.

“You know, if you cooperate now, I could win you a few points back at the station for assisting an officer of the law.”

“I...I, I already told you! They don’t tell me nothing. I’m just the runner-boy!”

“If you’re a runner-boy, you have the potential to know a lot more than you let on.”

“That stuff? I don’t know what that stuff is about...I never looked too much into it, I just got paid man--er, lady.”

“You’re a terrible liar, and if you don’t tell me something useful then I’ll make sure to include that in my report.”

“Fuck you!”

The third closest person Tim isn’t able to spot at all, only hear. But judging by the voice, he has a pretty good idea of what they look like anyway. “Aye, Montoya!” they shout. “You get anything worthwhile?” Tim wouldn’t be able to forget that voice, and the memory of its rancid breath, even if he tried.

“I’d be getting there if you’d stop butting in, Bullock!”

“Yeah, yeah, just do yer job!”

“I’m not talkin’!” the arrested boy says immediately after.

Ten minutes filled with an exasperated Detective Montoya later, and enough people have walked away that Tim thinks he has a clear shot to the next street. Normally he’d just have to be in the clear for a few feet and then act casual and no one would suspect a thing, but even if they didn’t suspect him of trespassing now, it’s past curfew for teenagers and he’s not supposed to be out anyway. Being out past curfew alone is probable cause enough to get him a trip to the police station, or at least a thorough questioning.

He inches his way to the fence, watching Montoya carefully to ensure that she doesn’t look his way as he crawls out underneath. He can take cover behind the cars once he’s through, but if he’s caught in the act then he’s screwed.

“What’s your name, kid?”

“None’a your business.”

“You do realise I’m just going to get it out of you in a few minutes, once my partner gets back and we cuff you to a chair?”

“Fine, whatever.”

“Well?”

“...Sam.”

Tim doesn’t hear Montoya’s response. He’s frozen from where he’s crouched over, holding the flap of the broken fence up so that it doesn’t clang against the other links when it falls, already on the other side. His eyes immediately go to the boy in the back of the police cruiser, glaring with all of his might at the no-nonsense faced Hispanic woman leaning against the passenger side door. A normal enough looking kid, maybe sixteen if Tim had to make a guess, but probably something more like fourteen. He has brown floppy hair and a ratty hoodie, and the longer that they talk, although Tim has blocked out the words now, the more resigned he looks as his ire runs out.

A shout is what finally pulls Tim out of his head, abrupt and loud enough to echo in the mostly empty street. “Hey! You shouldn’t be here!” 

With startling clarity, Tim realises his position and how he probably looks like a bit more than a trespasser now.

His head snaps back to Montoya, whose eyes have just locked onto his position only ten feet away.

He bolts.

Luckily, he’s agile enough that he swiftly gains a safe distance past Detective Bullock, the one who had spotted (and hopefully didn’t recognise) him. Montoya is the one Tim is worried about. Any other officers were originally too far away to be a pressing concern, but Montoya is young and fit and she’s gaining very, very quickly.

He can’t help but think that Jay would be so disappointed in him.

It almost concerns him that that’s his first thought, not what it would be like to spend the night in jail. Almost.

“I hate myself,” Tim whispers harshly to himself as he goes veering into an alley and scrambles into the nearest recycling dumpster. Years of hanging around with Jay have really trained him in the art of quick dumpster diving (it helps that him, Jay, and Kori all had a timed contest at one point. He had a lot of bruises afterwards, but Kori made pie so it was okay). Montoya tracks him into the alley, but gives up her search after ten minutes, not having heard the lid of the dumpster close because he’s gotten that good (actually, it’s because the dumpster is full with cardboard boxes so Tim was able to support the lid enough to prevent it from banging shut, and there happened to be a broken chair beside it tall enough for Tim to use as a stepping stool).

He waits a few more minutes for good measure before crawling back out, and then he just sits on the ground of the filthy gravel and stares blankly at the graffitied wall across from him before slowly, quietly heading back home.

That night, Tim is so exhausted that he skips brushing his teeth, but he can’t sleep. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can hear are the sound of gunshots ricocheting off of aluminum shipping containers, yet he’s too physically drained to even attempt to get up and do something productive with his time. Fortunately, his camera bag is right beside him on the floor, so he gets a hold of his camera and starts sluggishly clicking through picture after picture until he stops on the most recent one of Robin, taken a year ago (it’s interesting to see how long it’s been since Tim went out to take more -- it feels like only yesterday that he last had the chance).

He stares with a critical eye at Robin’s straight, shaggy hair; his toned, lean frame. The way he has legs that seem to go for miles and narrow shoulders not equipped to handle considerable bulk and a sharp, angular face. He stares, and it becomes very obvious to him, even if he had only glanced, that this Robin and the one he had seen tonight are not the same.

* * *

It feels like his mind is thinking before Tim even wakes up the next morning, because before he even opens his eyes he’s thinking about Sam. Sam, this kid he has never met but who squashed all hopes Tim had for a lead anyway.

Which makes Tim feel sort of bad. After all, if Sam had been a lead, that would mean Sam would have to have been kidnapped, and Tim doesn’t want to wish that on anybody. Still, it’s frustrating.

With nothing better to do, he decides to head to the police station again, but is stopped short by a phone call from Ariana and finds himself frantically attempting to clean up his room instead via tossing all of his clothes, even clean ones, into the washing machine. She brings over her friend Zoe, a pretty girl with dark skin, and beelines straight to his pool. Not to set up that or the hot tub, though. No, that task is left for Tim.

It’s only when he and Zoe are in the water and he’s getting a mouthful of chlorine water while Ariana does her best to devour all of the pizza before he can get his hands on it that he remembers Stephanie, and through an offhanded comment about her to Ariana, he finds himself being shoved back inside the penthouse to retrieve his phone.

“Hello?” is her greeting, and the sound of her voice, even as altered as it is through technology, unravels a knot in his gut that he can’t explain. He’s been trying his best not to appear too subdued or miserable to Ariana or her friend, but it’s hard when every moment that he’s not actively involved in a conversation or action, his head is filled with thoughts of Jay and Robin. Luckily, Ariana isn’t Cass and although she’s shot him an odd look once or twice, she’s been relatively unconcerned.

Tim feels bad that he sort of wants them to leave. He feels worse that he sort of doesn’t want Stephanie to come over either, but now that he’s on the phone he feels obligated, and he knows that if he hung up to hang out with friends when he could he spending time with her too he would feel insanely guilty. “Hey,” he says, swallowing.

“Who is this?”

Tim feels taken aback for a moment, his heart dropping, before he realises that he’s calling with the house phone. Right. “Uh, Tim.”

There’s a pause, then, “ _ Tim?  _ Oh my god! You jerk! Do you realise how long it’s been since we talked? What the hell?”

“I text you sometimes,” he protests.

“ _ Sometimes!” _

“I-- I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“With school?” comes the bitter reply. “It’s summer.”

Tim’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, but before he can formulate a response she continues: “Sorry. Sorry. I really am glad you called. God, it’s been a while. You have to come over sometime! Actually, no. I want to come over sometime. You said you have a pool! How’ve you been, anyway?”

He finds himself smiling at her rush of words. She’s always talked like she has a limited amount of time to get everything out. “I’ve been”--stressed, afraid--”good. You?”

“Good! Even though we haven’t talked. But now it’s summer we can hang out finally, right? We’ve hung out like, once since you moved. It’s dumb and you’re dumb and I’m mad and there’s that festival in Metropolis next week, wanna go?”

Tim laughs, finding that he’s missed the struggle of keeping up with Stephanie Brown. “Uh, not sure. My schedule next week is a little...weird. Actually, I called to see if you wanted to come over now?”

“Right now?” Stephanie echoes.

“Yeah. Ariana kind of invited herself over for the pool since it’s so hot, and she brought a friend so I figured I’d bring one too. I can give you my address.”

“Oh. Jeez. I don’t really have a ride. And I’m kind of doing something right now.”

“You are?” Tim says, disappointed and surprised. Disappointed he understands, but he’s not quite sure why he’s surprised. Stephanie can have her own life. After all, he’s been neglecting talking to her in order to deal with his. But it’s...weird, suddenly getting slapped with the knowledge that he has no idea what she’s been up to, and that while he goes about his day, she’s also going about hers. “Like what?”

“Hanging out with Jeremy. He just got back from his dad’s house yesterday so I haven’t seen him in a while.”

Tim doesn’t get what the difference is, other than the fact that Stephanie hasn’t seen Tim for  _ longer  _ and, he notes with a pang of annoyance, he’s her  _ best friend.  _ “Jeremy’s that guy in your math class who you said was really cute, right? I didn’t know you guys were friends,” he replies, opening his fridge and grabbing three water bottles.

“Oh, yeah, about that. We’re really not.” She giggles in the background, away from the speaker of the phone, and Tim pauses to frown at his reflection in the microwave. “He asked me out! Like, a few weeks ago, actually. Right before he went to his dad’s place. We’ve been on a few dates and ohmigosh, Tim, he’s even cuter up close!” There’s a pause as Tim blanks on what to say, just staring at the microwave, while Stephanie says something unintelligible off the side with the speaker covered. “I gotta go. He was in the bathroom and he’s coming back now. But hey! We’re on for Metropolis, right?”

“Uh, sure,” Tim says, quietly.

“Sweet! Sorry that I can’t come over today. But I’ll see you soon! Love ya! Bye!”

He doesn’t really know what to think by the time he hangs up the phone, setting it back on its stand in the kitchen, and walks out onto the roof with the water bottles. Zoe calls him an angel as she takes one from him and downs half the thing in one go. He walks over to Ariana, who’s in the hot tub, and sets the one for her on the side of the tile.

“Welcome back!” she says brightly. “So, what’s the dealio? Your friend coming over?”

“No,” says Tim. “She’s busy with her boyfriend.”

Ariana gives him a weird look when he says that, but he doesn’t know why. Maybe she’s surprised that Stephanie would ditch her best friend for some random guy too.

* * *

When Ariana and Zoe finally leave, the sky is already getting dark. But for some reason, since his phone call with Stephanie, Tim’s resolve to hit the streets and tear every building apart brick by brick to get Jay back has hardened. He puts on a black hoodie and sets out with nothing but his phone.

He makes it to the police station by the end of sunset, and there’s significantly less traffic than there had been the last time Tim stopped by. This time he actually makes it inside, and is about to sit down to wait for the receptionist to get off the phone and notice him because once more he shut the door far too quietly when he realises that all she’ll do is turn him away. His short height comes into handy now as he passes by her virtually unnoticed.

There are stairs behind the reception desk and Tim takes them. He’s decided that he wants to speak to the commissioner, but he doesn’t know where the commissioner is, so he ends up turning right at the top of the stairs and wandering until he comes across the right place. No one is walking about, but that’s purely by luck. The station, although quiet, is far from closed or deserted, it’s just that everyone seems to be in rooms or downstairs for the moment.

He doesn’t find the commissioner’s office, but he does comes across a room at the very end of the hall, beside a few waiting chairs, that’s unlabelled but occupied by at least eight people. One of them, Tim glimpses as said man paces on the other side of the glass, is Captain Jim Gordon. A familiar face puts Tim to ease, so he settles down into a chair and waits for his meeting to be over.

Tim doesn’t have to wait for long, but in this case, that’s not a good thing. Another door beside his chair opens and Tim snaps his head up to see a stranger in a police badge stare down at him in shock. Shock that turns into confusion that quickly turns into suspicion. “What are you doing here?” he says.

Tim falters for a moment before blurting, “I was looking for the commissioner.”

The man looks from him, to the closed door of the room, to around the hall before finally gesturing for Tim to get up. “Are you allowed to be here?”

“Yes,” Tim lies.

“Alright,” the man sighs. “Why do you need to see the commissioner?”

Tim doesn’t answer. Not because he’s trying to be bratty, or intentionally difficult. But he knows that if he tells this officer the reason for his visit, he’ll turn him away. Better to act like he has an attitude. The man narrows his eyes at him, but nudges him by the shoulder in the opposite direction that he had originally been heading. “Commissioner Loeb is in his office right now. He’s probably just packing up to go home, so make it quick.”

They walk down in awkward, oppressive silence, and Tim fights the urge to look back over his shoulder to see if the Captain is done with his meeting. All he has to go on about Gordon is Jay’s word given over two years ago, but he already feels like Gordon is his closest ally in this.

That probably means he’s desperate.

They have to turn right into another hallway at one point, and when they do, they find themselves faced with a man turning the lock on a door with the plaque ‘Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb’. “Commissioner,” the officer beside Tim greets. “Sorry to bother you, but I found this kid down the hall. Says he needs to talk to you.”

The Commissioner of Police is a heavy-set man with hair on the sides of his head and a pathetic combover that adds nothing. His eyebrows look like caterpillars ten times darker than his hair and Tim doesn’t think the man’s face could form a pleasant expression even if he tried.

It’s familiar. Maybe before last night it would have been less familiar, just a passing recognition that Tim wouldn’t have been able to place. But now he knows exactly where he’s seen it before and suddenly, talking to the commissioner doesn’t seem like the best idea.

“Well?” Loeb grunts, apparently none too pleased to have his exit barred by a child half his size.

“Oh,” Tim says. “I just wanted to...thank you. For everything.”

“Yeah?” the man says, surprised. He visibly perks up.

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “What you do for this city is amazing. My mom wouldn’t stop talking about you in the news today. That was a really inspiring speech you gave.” Tim doesn’t know if Loeb’s given any speeches lately, or what they would have been about, but he figures someone like the commissioner has to talk to a lot of reporters anyway. Maybe. Tim doesn’t actually know a whole lot about what the commissioner is supposed to do. Is there supposed to be a PR guy for the police force? “I want to be a cop just like you when I grow up.” The way he’s talking feels fake and awkward, but then again, it  _ is  _ fake and awkward. Tim’s counting on it being made passable due to his age. Apparently it is, because Loeb laughs (a loud, irritating thing) and claps a hand on Tim’s back hard enough for him to lurch forward.

“That’s the spirit, my boy! Let your mother know that she’s a real upstanding woman for me, okay?”

“Okay,” responds Tim.

“Why don’t you walk with me?”

Tim feels like shooting himself. “Sure.”

They walk back down the hall, Loeb going on about the re-election of Mayor Hill and how Tim and his mother could contribute the campaign and success of the election by voting correctly and volunteering at the rallys. Interestingly enough, the officer is still with them, but the hand on Tim’s shoulder has been replaced with Loeb’s hand and when Tim glances to the side, the officer’s mouth is set in a firm, thin line.

The commissioner doesn’t leave until they’re already out on the street. He splits off down the street in the same direction that Tim is supposed to go, but he pretends that he has to go the opposite direction just to escape him. The officer from before is lingering at the exit of the station. “A big fan, huh?” the officer chuckles, nodding his head in the direction of the commissioner.

“Something like that,” Tim says, feeling supremely awkward and wholly unsatisfied. The officer raises an eyebrow and opens his mouth, ready to retort, when a woman exits the station and looks his way. Tim remembers seeing her in the same room as Gordon earlier.

“O’Connor,” she greets. “Gordon wants to see you upstairs, probably to fill you in and all.”

“Yeah, I bet. Sorry for having to miss out,” O’Connor apologises.

“Nah, you’re good. There wasn’t anything new anyway. I’m going to head home, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yup, see ya,” O’Connor says, and then turns to Tim as the woman gets into the bright red sedan parked on the curb. “Hey kid, do you have a ride home? A parent you can call to come pick you up?”

“Yeah,” Tim says.

“Alright. You should come wait for them inside. I’m not too comfortable with you standing out here alone in the dark. Gotham is a dangerous place.”

Tim doesn’t bother trying to argue. He follows the officer back inside the station. He sits in one of the many empty chairs, watching as O’Connor disappears around the edge of the stairs, before promptly getting up again and leaving.

He thinks about his camera as he heads down the street, back towards the penthouse. He should probably start carrying it around on him everywhere he goes like he used to. After all, if Tim hadn’t done that before, then he wouldn’t have the clear picture of the commissioner that he does, the one he took years ago that he only saw again last night while going through the pictures of Batman and Robin around it. He’s going to go double and triple-check, but he’s almost certain the picture involved him receiving money from a shady looking character, and if that isn’t cause for concern then Tim doesn’t know what is.

Is every cop in the GCPD really corrupt?

He remembers Jay’s dislike for them, his distrust, and almost believes they are.

And then he remembers Gordon. No, he doesn’t know anything about the man. But he does know Jay. And if Jay trusts him, then there has to be something special there for him to trust. 

Tim is so absorbed in his thoughts that he almost misses it when he stops at a crosswalk, even though there are very few cars out and about and he would easily be able to jaywalk. He almost misses, but doesn’t, the red sedan parked just up the side street to his left. Tim squints at it, disbelieving that it could be the same one, so he abandons the crosswalk and walks further up the street to peer into the driver’s seat. He distinctly remembers an Obama bobblehead on the dash.

And there it is. It’s the right one. The red sedan belonging to the woman that had walked out of the police station not ten minutes ago, saying that she was going to go home. If her home really was one street away from the station, Tim has a hard time believing that she would feel the need to drive there.

He cautiously inches his way further up the hill of the sidewalk, leaving the sedan behind. Most of the places on this street are businesses. Tim has the map memorised. Small businesses, dwarfed by the overwhelming presence of the chains crowding the main street. They tend to close earlier, at 8 or 9pm, and while in the winter months those times would be plenty late, in summer that’s only sunset. Pulling out his phone, Tim notes that they should all be closed by now.

There’s one that has lights on, though. Just a few, but enough to have their glow be visible from under the reach of the blinds. At first glance, there isn’t anything to see because of said blinds. But the blinds aren’t the same width as the window, so when Tim walks up to it and steps close enough to the corner, angling his head just right, he can see half of a man’s body occupying a table on the far wall. Feeling already horribly embarrassed if this just happens to be a manager counting tips for the night, Tim walks briskly to the other side of the window and peers from there.

There she is. The same woman from before, sitting across from the not-so-unfamiliar man in a suit. Tim takes a step back to look up at the store front’s name.

An Italian restaurant. That has to be a cliche. Tim snorts even as he pulls out his phone and takes a picture of the name. Then he gets closer to the window and presses his phone to the glass, taking another quick picture before swiftly ducking out of sight because not even normal people not doing anything wrong would appreciate their picture being taken, not to mention anyone potentially participating in illegal activity.

He should go home. There’s nothing here for him to want to bother with. What’s a potentially corrupt police officer from another? He still has no leads. But Tim is feeling restless, and just because there isn’t anything here related to what he wants, that doesn’t mean there isn’t anything here worth investigating.

Besides, Tim’s seen that man in his camera before too.

He shoots a quick text to himself saying to print out all of his pictures and start finding names to the perps involved, because his random shots are becoming more useful than he could have ever imagined.

Tim slumps against the brick of the building and sighs, thinking. Even before checking, he knows that he won’t be able to get into the restaurant through the back. The kitchen staff would have already long since left and everything would be locked up. He doesn’t have to think very long, though. The sound of the door opening has Tim dashing into the alley into panic. When he calms his heart enough to peer around the corner again, he sees the woman standing on the sidewalk, dialing a number into her cell. She turns and starts walking. The streets are so quiet and empty that unfortunately Tim can’t follow her, since he would have no cover. But fortunately, they’re quiet and empty enough that the woman’s side of her phone conversation reaches him. It’s pitched low enough that it doesn’t echo, and that’s very obviously an intentional move on her part, considering what she’s saying by the time she reaches her car.

“He gets busted, you’ll lose influence. I’m telling you, Gordon will fill that position and that man’s a hard head. He isn’t easily swayed. I know. Trust me, this special task force of his isn’t going to be a problem. I already told-- no, of course not. Gordon and the rest haven’t gotten any hard evidence for months.”

And suddenly, Tim has an idea.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought that Tim having a photo of the commissioner in his camera is random? Not at all. Go reread the beginning of chapter one. I assure you, it's in there.
> 
> The photo of the man in the restaurant is too, if you can figure that out.
> 
> ________
> 
> No one in this chapter is an OC, but all of their timelines are fucked up. I basically stole bits and pieces of canon and pieced them all together in a way that fit -- welcome to fanfiction, folks. If any of you have read Dark Victory, then you might recognise O’Connor and Wilcox, although they were detectives in Jim’s Special Task Force while Jim was commish and Loeb had already been fired, all around the time Dick was just becoming Robin at nine years old. The general gist of canon has remained the same, though. 
> 
> It’s good to note that the way I have this story set up, or at least the goal that I’m trying to achieve, is that it’s one event, one thing going on, in a sea of thousands of things going on all at once. It’s a universe that doesn’t revolve around Tim. That’s why there are so many unnecessary characters coming and going that have nothing to contribute to the main plot -- they contribute to the background plots, the cogs and gears turning out of Tim’s sight. 
> 
> For example, at the beginning of this story, Starfire and Raven were in Gotham because they were fascinated by the presence of Robin (I can explain how they got there and all to anyone who’s interested). Robin agrees to lead their team, so they move to California in order to form the Teen Titans. This is only shown in the story when the owner of the bread shop tells Tim that Kori went to California, although he doesn’t know how because she doesn’t have a car. Not even remotely related to this story, but a subplot all the same that adds to the world Tim’s in.
> 
> Another example is the way Commissioner Loeb advocates for the re-election of Mayor Hill and encourages Tim to do the same. The mayor, in case you didn’t know, is the one that generally elects the commissioner of police. Mayor Hill is corrupt. So is Commissioner Loeb. The only way for Loeb to secure his position as commissioner is to secure Hill’s position as mayor, hence the support. Yet, Officer O’Connor is listening to this, and although he’s keeping his mouth shut, Tim notes that his expression isn’t necessarily a delighted one. He doesn’t approve of teaching a child to support corrupt politics, but he can’t say anything about it, especially not in front of Loeb. Gotham politics at its finest. None of this is at all relevant, but a nice detail all the same.
> 
> There are many things like this all littered throughout the story! I truly, sincerely hope it gives off the impression of a bigger world, as that’s my main intention with the set up.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a really exciting chapter and ended up being probably the most boring chapter. I got my writing muse back at 1am, so that means a ton of rambling and world-building without actually getting to anything reader's would consider fun (I was having a lot of fun writing it, at least, but I'm just weird). I literally only managed to get a quarter of what I planned on getting done in this chapter, but it was either end here or end at the end and that would have been way too long. In other words, congratulations, you now get a filler.
> 
> I promise we'll see some more of our precious Jay next chapter. <3 Bear with me.

 

 

 

> **[You have entered]**
> 
> **[ping: 211 ms]**
> 
> **[3 Users Active, 1 Idle]**
> 
> **[legendsneverdie is Idle]**
> 
> **[13:29] <you> Hey guys!**
> 
> **[13:29] <awsomeguy> i didnt think so? anyway, if the current first world nations never went around killing people, white people would be the poorest people in the world**
> 
> **[13:29] <awsomeguy> oh, look who shows up**
> 
> **[13:29] <you> Fascinating conversation I just walked into.**
> 
> **[13:29] <tiffany101> thank god. I don’t think I can take another history lesson.**
> 
> **[13:29] <awsomeguy> it’s relevant!**
> 
> **[13:29] <tiffany101> you always just wanna talk about dead people**
> 
> **[13:29] <you> To be fair, people dying is always relevant.**
> 
> **[13:30] <awsomeguy> see! this guy gets me**
> 
> **[13:30] <awsomeguy> wyb, man? im always ganged up on when youre not here**
> 
> **[13:30] <you> Sorry, I’ve been busy.**
> 
> **[13:30] <tiffany101> that’s because people actually like him**

 

Tim laughs, watching as the chat explodes into activity without him even having to contribute. It only takes a few seconds before he’s forgotten about and he can turn back to transferring his photos onto a new USB. He glances back every once in awhile while waiting for the files to finish downloading.

 

 

 

 

> **[13:33] <gottagofast> woah! I didn’t even see alv**
> 
> **[13:33] <awsomeguy> yeah well i think hes gone anyway**
> 
> **[13:33] <you> I’m still here.**
> 
> **[13:33] <gottagofast> sweeeeet :DDDD**
> 
> **[13:33] <gottagofast> seriously, perfect timing**
> 
> **[13:33] <gottagofast> leg’s been trying to reach you. I think hes having dinner, but stick around. He'll probably be back soon**
> 
> **[13:34] <awsomeguy> wtf man, do you just stalk the chat?**
> 
> **[13:34] <you> Basically. And I’ll be semi. Tell him to PM me, I’ve got some work I’m trying to get done. I’ll keep the chat up.**
> 
> **[13:34] <tiffany101> workaholic alerttttt**
> 
> **[13:34] <awsomeguy> what are you even working on? I know you havent been pulling any jobs from here**
> 
> **[13:34] <awsomeguy> cheatin on us already?**
> 
> **[13:34] <you> Maybe I found something...or someONE...better :)**
> 
> **[13:34] <tiffany101> ouuuchhhh**
> 
> **[13:34] <awsomeguy> and here I thought we had something special…**
> 
> **[13:34] <gottagofast> haha gay**

 

A kid almost knocks Tim’s camera off of the computer desk and he catches it automatically without even looking, feeling his heart practically stop at the possibility of his most prized possession hitting the dirty ground. His head snaps up to glare daggers at the preteen boy who hasn’t even noticed his almost-crime, already walking away. Tim doesn’t recognise him, the boy probably goes to public school, and all the better. Tim would wreak havoc on him if he had hurt his precious Canon.

One of the downsides to libraries on midday weekends: Too many people. But he wants to get this done as quickly as possible and had felt the desire to check in on the main chat he normally frequents, and his own caution makes it so that he doesn’t want to use his own computer at his own house for that.

Like, he doesn’t even use his own library card to log in to the computer he ends up using. He found one on the ground once, took a picture, and now it’s his go-to for chatting.

Caution -- not paranoia. Caution.

Besides, considering what he does on this particular chat, he thinks it’s justified. He’s sure all the others have similar security measures in place. He doesn’t do anything necessarily illegal, but he can’t speak for the others so it’s better to be safe than sorry. The chat’s main focus is just a place for nerds to collaborate and talk about their interests and hobbies with others who will probably understand them, but it’s a rather large group and everyone is well aware of the fact that there are a handful who take their ‘hobbies’ a step too far.

Awsomeguy comes across as a fool most of the time -- a very annoying, persistent fool with a crude sense of humour, but he has to be one of the smartest people Tim knows. He’s 19 years old and, according to tiffany101, a lazy ass who can’t be bothered to move from his dad’s house. He’s never had any formal education past high school, but can talk in depth about any topic, particularly history and computer science. The most Tim knows about him is that he’s a hacker who makes it a personal challenge to hack into high security places just to troll them and is probably going to get himself arrested some day soon. He’s one of the people who use their hobbies in less than innocent ways, at least according to the law.

Tiffany101 is awsomeguy’s best friend, somewhere in her 20’s (she’s never specific), probably late 20’s considering the fact that she has her masters in Engineering. She treats Tim as her equal and is pretty big on education and high-name schools, to the constant annoyance of awsomeguy.

They’re the most active ones. Tim doesn’t think he’s ever gotten on the chat when they weren’t on as well. Although he’s been part of it for a while now, when he does go on he doesn’t stay long, because everyone in the chat has a reason to be there and his reason doesn’t leave him much time for sitting around in front of a screen. This is the first time in a long time that Tim’s online just because he wants company. He rarely actually chats anymore, despite joining specifically for the reason of having people to talk to and learn from about computer science and information technology, but it’s a comfort when he’s alone and things are quiet to be able to open the tab and see a constantly scrolling spam of messages full of teasing and jokes. Especially now that it seems like everyone in his life is either too busy for him, literally can’t talk to him, or is straight up missing.

All the files he wanted are loaded on his USB by the time he decides to check the chat again. There’s a blinking name in the right-hand corner of the screen in the form of a second tab. He clicks on it.

 

 

> **[You are now speaking privately to legendsneverdie]**
> 
> **[13:48] <legendsneverdie> You’re a tough guy to get in touch with.**

 

Tim knows that’s a not-so-subtle request for a more efficient way of contact. He’s asked for it before. Tim doesn’t cave.

 

 

> **[13:52] <you> Sure am. What’s up?**
> 
> **[13:52] <legendsneverdie> I’ve got a job for you.  Simple and quick, a one-time thing, local. You in?**
> 
> **[13:52] <you> Deadline?**
> 
> **[13:52] <legendsneverdie> Flexible. Get the pictures to me within a few a weeks and we’re good.**
> 
>  

Tim thinks about Jay and hesitates, but he figures that if he’s going to be on the streets anyway, well…

 

 

> **[13:52] <you> I’m in. But I’m going to need to pull a favor from you in exchange this time.**
> 
> **[13:52] <legendsneverdie> What kind of favor?**
> 
> **[13:52] <you> Not sure yet.**
> 
> **[13:52] <legendsneverdie> Hm. You’ve never asked for anything in return, what brought this on?**
> 
> **[13:52] <you> Gut feeling.**
> 
> **[13:52] <legendsneverdie> Understandable. In that case, sure, so long as your favor is electronic.**
> 
>  

Legendsneverdie is the one Tim knows the least about. He’s never talked about himself. He’s never joined when the chat hosts a Skype call, either (Tim does, because library computers don’t have cameras and he puts his side on mute anyway, just because he wants to listen to what’s going on but he doesn’t want them to discover the fact that his voice cracks). However, when it comes to the types of favors that Tim provides, he’s the one in most demand of it. The chat mainly consists of nerds of every variety, but hackers are the most common, especially hackers who enjoy hacking to satisfy their god-complexes. This means using their hacking to bring down shady websites, expose celebrity secrets, the sort. In all honesty, Tim isn’t always sure that he’s not suddenly part of Anonymous 2.0. But legendsneverdie is different. Tim is sure he hacks, but he has a slightly different view of how to get what he wants compared to the other hackers. Somehow, he gets grudges on the weirdest and most random people, and likes to gather physical evidence as well as electronic against them. Hence, the need for Tim’s services. Tim has a sneaking suspicion that legendsneverdie is a blackmailer, but he doesn’t actually want to ask and get himself in some sort of trouble, so he keeps quiet.

Maybe Tim makes himself out to be more valuable than he is. After all, anyone can take pictures. But he likes to think that he’s gotten very, very good at taking pictures in difficult situations, from and of difficult places, at difficult times. If he’s given a goal and a target, he’ll be successful no matter what.

He often considers pursuing a career in private investigation.

Tim double checks that he has all the photos he wants copied, and then disconnects his camera and turns back to the chat, reading what legendsneverdie sends about the target -- address, frequented places, and a link to a doc with their schedule. He copies all the information to a doc that he saves on his USB and makes sure hasn’t been saved anywhere on the computer before closing the private tab.

He has a few questions he wants to ask everyone before he leaves, and while he’s sure that he can find their answers on his own, it’s always easier to consult others who probably already know something. Since overhearing the woman’s conversation last night, Tim hasn’t been able to get it out of his head. Particularly the bit about Captain Gordon.

 

 

> **[13:55] <you> Question: What do you guys know about the chain of command for the GCPD?**
> 
>  

Oh, another thing to mention: Everyone on this chat lives on the east coast. Most of them? Gotham. It makes things a lot more convenient, and it’s the only way it’s possible for Tim to actually contribute to their electronic tricks and pranks. After all, taking pictures of a target is pretty hard if they live in a place like California.

 

 

> **[13:55] <tiffany101> nada. I don’t even know what the hell goes on up here in coast city, let alone that hellhole**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> hey man, don’t bag on gotham. Home sweet home and all that**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> haha jk bag on it all you want this place fucking sucks**
> 
> **[13:55] <you> Real helpful.**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> sorry bro. i know a little bit. Whatdya need?**

 

Sometimes, Tim thinks about meeting up with awsomeguy. It’s not often. Mainly because he doesn’t want the man to know that Tim has yet to hit high school. Or 5 feet. Judging by the way the man complains about his neighbours, though (apparently there’s more than a few bars on his street that don’t let him sleep at night), Tim has a good guess that he might live in Burnley, and even the possible street he could be at. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, knowing that someone he corresponds with online is so close by in real life. Luckily, awsomeguy has yet to ask Tim if he wants to meet. He probably gets the hint, considering Tim never talks about Gotham unless it’s for a job, let alone engage in complaints of it.

 

 

> **[13:55] <you> I’ve been searching up the chain of command for metropolitan areas, but they keep differing depending on the city and it’s getting annoying. All the results I get for Gotham are equally confusing.**
> 
> **[13:55] <you> What is the position above Captain? As in, say someone got fired or knocked off from their position and the most likely next candidate to fill it was formerly a Captain?**
> 
> **[13:55] <legendsneverdie> Weird question. Why?**
> 
> **[13:55] <you> Research.**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> hm well Gotham IS pretty weird. And the GCPD is hella corrupt, so no help there. Basically, once you hit captain, you can honestly get put anywhere if youre good enough (read: if your pockets are as big as riddler’s ego)**
> 
> **[13:55] <legendsneverdie> I wouldn’t jump to conclusions that fast. Not everyone in the GCPD is corrupt. In the end, I’d say it depends on who fired the first guy.**

 

Tim leans back in his computer chair and frowns. Legendsneverdie brings up a good point, although he never really comments unless it’s to impart a good point so no surprise there. Awsomeguy confirms Tim’s suspicions, too. He’s never really focused on the GCPD, but the corruption in there has to be rampant considering the pure amount of crime on the streets. Surely a city with at least a decent police force would be a bit more cleaned up?

 

 

> **[13:55] <gottagofast> gee, no wonder yall like batman so much**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> tbh id like him better if hed just fucking shoot that goddamned clown already**
> 
> **[13:55] <legendsneverdie> I’m pretty sure the only reason he ISN’T Joker 2.0 is because he DOESN’T kill people.**
> 
> **[13:55] <gottagofast> wow leg, i think that’s the first time ive seen you use caps**
> 
> **[13:55] <awsomeguy> yea? Well id take a murderous batman over a murderous psychopath any day**
> 
> **[13:56] <tiffany101> who says batman isnt a psychopath?**
> 
> **[13:56] <awsomeguy> it probably looks that way from your cozy little nest in coast city tiff but you guys dont got the shit that we do. A guy dressing up in a bat costume every night to go jump white vans? Fuck man thats the sanest thing in this place**
> 
>  

Tim gets so sucked into his own thoughts that he forgets that he’s still on that chat, but he doesn’t think he wants to stick around for a discussion about the benefits of a murderous Batman. He quickly types his goodbye and manages to stay long enough for gottagofast to complain before exiting.

* * *

It’s just a quick trip to Bartell’s before Tim is back home with eight extremely thick, overflowing envelopes of laminated photos. He probably could have just printed them on normal paper, but Tim’s printer doesn’t have enough ink and he sort of has a thing for lamination anyway. It makes everything seem so much neater and doesn’t tear or easily wrinkle, plus he has the money so what’s the harm?

His parents might question why Tim took enough money from their cards to pay for some 300+ photos, but the truth is that the price is barely anything to them now (which is still such a weird reality -- he can’t help but think of Jay every time he remembers how rich he is) and if anything, they’ll just be disappointed for what the photos are _of._ So long that they don’t know he’s the one who took them, of course.

For all that his parents are genius archeologists and businesspeople, they’re pretty blind when it comes to the capabilities of their son. They still think he’s eight years old, and have yet to know about how often he’s snuck away in the middle of the night. It actually disheartens Tim, although he can’t figure out why because it shouldn’t (if they paid attention, he wouldn’t have so much awesome photos, for one).

He retreats upstairs and stands in the doorway of his room debating, before going into the bathroom. The tiled floor will make it easier to keep the photos flat and organised, and it also has the most floorspace with the least likely chance that Tim will forget about them and step in the wrong place. He spreads all the photos from the first three envelopes out, which cover a good half of his master bathroom, and begins taking away every photo that doesn’t have anything to do with Robin while turning every photo with Robin face down. With every remaining photo turned face down, he begins sorting them by the dates printed on the back, and turns them all back over when he’s done.

Now that he looks, he can see the gradual aging of Robin in his sporadic close-ups. It’s also amusing to finally see that Robin apparently can’t decide on a hairstyle (the _old_ Robin, Tim reminds himself). He scoots all of them further up the bathroom floor and then starts on the next three.\

By the time he’s done with all eight, there’s four envelopes worth of photos on the ground. He decided last moment to set aside all of his photos with Batman, but that doesn’t decrease the amount by much considering Batman is a lot more careful of being seen than Robin is (was). Tim has also spaced out the photos with more than three months between them, and he’s disappointed to see the amount of spaces towards the end of his collection.

With everything laid out, it’s extremely obvious to him how different the Robin of last year (the last photo Tim had taken) is from the Robin of three years ago. Not only physically. Tim notes with a frown that Robin had begun to smile less as well. Also, while Tim concentrated less on taking photos as he got older, he didn’t abandon it completely until he moved. All in all, Robin _appeared_ less too.

He sits there pondering it for a while before deciding to gather everything up again. He picks out a few prominent, clear close-up or action photos for display on his billboard and then stacks the rest of them in order with the most recent on top. He grabs a sticky note from his room and writes _What was Robin #1 doing if he wasn’t in Gotham?_ and pins it to his billboard in the middle of his new photos, tucking the rest of the stack into the box under his bed. The billboard is taken out from under the bed and propped up on his desk. He’ll put it away again before his parents get home.

Tim goes back to the bathroom and starts on the remaining photos, the ones not of Robin, also sorting them by date. After some time spent thinking about how he wants to organise them, he groups the photos on where they were taken. It takes him a while to remember and a lot of frustration, but in the end he thinks he gets most of them right, and it’s once he sorts them into groups that he truly notices the recurring faces.

Between the piles, a few faces do cross over and appear more than once in multiple places, but for the most part they tend to be in the same place. He sets aside the photos consisting of people on smoke breaks or the homeless and leaves the photos where people are shaking hands, talking in hushed tones, or otherwise looking suspicious. The recurring faces stay. In some cases, people who show up multiple times are even talking to _each other._ He sticks a red sticker on each of the ones featuring multiple recurring faces and grabs another sticky note.

 _Gang affiliations or just living arrangements? Find out CONNECTIONS._ He stacks the pictures sorted by places individually, removing the ones with red stickers and writing their locations on the backs with sticky tabs. Then he puts the stacks in his box and puts his new sticky note on the billboard, surrounding it with his singled out photos.

It’s only once he takes a step back that he truly recognises one particular face in the photos. The man from the restaurant, sitting across from the woman from last night. He can’t help but grin as he gets closer and sees the man shaking hands with a short, plump, balding man that can’t be clearly seen due to the angle, but with a closer look is more than recognisable to Tim.

Commissioner Loeb.

Tim is so excited that he jumps onto his bed and buries his face in the covers.

* * *

_Gordon will fill that position._

That phrase plays in Tim’s head like an annoying record. He frowns at the ceiling.

If Gordon is going to fill any position, it’s probably a higher one. So Gordon will rise in rank if a certain someone gets ‘busted’. But judging by the way the woman (Tim really needs to find her name) was so _sure_ of her words, that means Gordon already has a prospective promotion in the future, or has been getting praise for some time and is expected to rise.

Which is interesting, considering Gordon _isn’t_ corrupt (as far as Tim knows). If he’s getting praise, it means that he’s genuinely doing a good job at cleaning up the city. Now, who would care about Gordon doing a good job?

Who _doesn’t_ have anything to gain from a corrupt police force?

The Mayor does. The Commissioner does (duh). Almost every other officer does. The government does (at least, Gotham’s does). So, clearly, no one in the legal justice system. In fact, the only people who would care about the corruption of the police force are those concerned with the general public, and for the most part, that would be the general public itself because white knights are a rare breed. Certainly, the public would praise--

It’s when Tim checks his phone because of a Tumblr notification that he realises.

The media. The media has influence on the city. They’re the ones that expose corruption, they’re the reason corruption has to remain hidden. They’re the ones that would be paying attention to Gordon’s efforts the most.

If a certain someone gets ‘busted’, Gordon will rise to that rank because of the influence of the media. It’s obvious that the ‘busted’ person is corrupt and should be taken down from their high horse anyway.

So what rank does the media want Gordon to have?

Honestly, it doesn’t take Tim very long from there. Once he searches up Jim Gordon, there are more than enough articles from prominent (left-wing, Tim notes with some curiousity) news sites that praise and cherish Jim Gordon like a guardian angel from heaven.

(He decides to search for topics related to Jim Gordon in prominent, extreme right-wing news sources -- he doesn’t pop up nearly as often, and when he does it’s normally accompanied by words such as ‘reckless’ and ‘disruptive’).

It’s his fifth article when Tim finally comes across it.

 

 

 

> _“Gordon? You wouldn’t believe...organised, charismatic, and passionate,” said Officer O’Connor when questioned about the raid and Gordon’s decision concerning it. “The only person he endangered was himself. Did he step over authority by blocking S.W.A.T. from going in? Maybe. I’m not sure. But no one can tell me he didn’t do the right thing in the end. He’s a planner, but he’s got just enough spark to be someone we desperately need out here, walking the streets. Everybody loves him.”_
> 
> _“You’re kidding me,” Officer Montoya said sometime later in response to the same question. “Instead of asking me IF he’s my boss, ask me when he’s going to BE my boss. You pay close attention -- that man is going to steal Commissioner right from under our noses.”_

Tim spares a moment to think about how he recognises Montoya’s name, and reaches the conclusion that she’s probably a bit too bold for her own safety, but he appreciates it anyway.

After all, she’s right. The woman from last night mentioned that Gordon was attempting to gather evidence with his ‘Task Force’. Tim has a good guess as to what that evidence is for. He goes back to his billboard and takes a good look at Commissioner Loeb’s photo.

He smiles. That man is going _down._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The event referenced in the news article actually happened, but I can’t for the life of me think of where I remember it from. In any case, there’s a hostage situation in a building and Gordon isn’t Commissioner at this time (or so I believe -- my memory is very clouded, it’s been a while) so he doesn’t have complete authority. S.W.A.T. has been ordered to go in and take care of the situation, but Gordon knows that doing so would only get the hostage killed, because the assailant is already very obviously spooked. He stops S.W.A.T. from going in, and then heads in there without being given clearance to talk the man down himself and handle the situation. The hostage is okay, the man is arrested, and Gordon gets insane media attention while simultaneously pissing Loeb off (since he doesn’t exactly want people starting to consider Gordon as their hero). One of my favourite Gordon moments, honestly.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the way I write chapters is like this: I post a chapter, I get a huge writer’s block, I don’t write at all for two months, and then I get some random spark of inspiration and write 5k in 2 hours and then post immediately after because I’m too impatient. Because of that, I have completely neglected TO BRAG ABOUT SOME FANART I GOT A FEW MONTHS AGO.
> 
> I mean, oh my god. Me??? Fanart??? I got some beautiful fanart??? How??? Why??? It’s saved on my phone and I look back on it every time I feel uninspired to write this because just LOOK AT IT: https://onthestraightandnarrowpath.tumblr.com/image/156023200548#_=_
> 
> The artist’s account here on AO3 is OnTheStraightAndNarrow, and their tumblr is onthestraightandnarrowpath. Go ahead and give them a follow for me because I don’t have a tumblr and can’t!
> 
> I cherish all of you so much. <3 Thank you for loving this story as much as I do!
> 
> I will always 100% accept fanart and save it to my phone to look back on constantly, and then link to probably everyone I know because all art deserves to be shared and admired (especiallyonesinspiredbymywritingohmyGOD?).
> 
> Now, without further ado, I hope you enjoy Chapter 16!

The connection between the woman from last night and Commissioner Loeb is easy to find. After all, Tim already has the evidence. He downloads the pictures from his phone onto his laptop and prints them, cutting them out and setting them on his desk alongside the laminated photo of the man she met, the one passing money to Loeb back in Burnley. The man is obviously bribing Loeb, and the woman is obviously informing the man of something. Tim’s best guess would be that the man has mafia affiliations, hence the bribes. The presence of the mafia in this area depends on a biddable police force under their thumb -- clearly, with Loeb in charge, it is. Take Loeb away and replace him with Gordon? Tim isn’t so sure. If the woman is informing the man about anything, it’s Gordon. And if there’s anything that’s important enough for the woman to inform the mafia about… it would be Gordon cracking down on Loeb.

But if Gordon can’t get evidence on Loeb, there’s a reason. Considering the fact that the unnamed woman is in the police force with Loeb, it’s very doubtful she would need a middleman to contact him for whatever reason. Getting pictures of her and Loeb speaking together wouldn’t even count as enough evidence for probable cause.

“O’Connor, report.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. Everyday is like clockwork. He leaves the station, goes straight home, lights out at 9pm.”

Captain Gordon looks haggard and stretched thin. He runs a hand through his hair and tilts his head down at the cement roof of the police station, his eyes pressed shut. Tim doesn’t think he’s seen a man look that stressed in his life. 

Tim is perched on a neighbouring rooftop from the police station. He hadn’t meant to catch Gordon here of all places, really. But he had decided to go out again to see if the unnamed woman will make an appearance and chose to do that near the station, and lo and behold, he found Gordon. And O’Connor. And four other police officers all standing around on the roof near the bat signal.

Tim thinks he’s found what Gordon’s Special Task Force looks like, and he thinks he knows why it’s getting nothing done. After all, standing off to the side beside O’Connor, watching Gordon, is the unnamed woman from before.

“I don’t mean to interrupt, sir,” the woman says all of a sudden, despite not having interrupted anything. “But what are we doing?”

“What do you mean?” Gordon asks, but it’s not quick and accusatory. It’s tired and weary and it seems like he’s just barely managing to convince himself to stand up straight to address her.

“All of this. At least for the commissioner. There’s plenty of corruption in the police force. You recruited us to weed that poison out, and I think we’ve been doing a great job so far. But tackling the commissioner? Don’t you think that’s a little bold or...impossible? Lets at least focus our efforts where we can make a difference, instead of trying in an area where we accomplish nothing at all.”

A murmur of assent sweeps across the face of the rooftop. Gordon’s features harden, but so do O’Connor’s.

“We didn’t take up this job to pick the easy way out,” Gordon says. His voice has taken on a stronger tone in contrast from before, determined and almost a little angry. “If we focus on the officers, on the detectives, it might look like we’re doing something. It might look like we’re clearing people out, but in fact all we’re doing is creating a vacuum for new people with the same corruption to take their place. Except when that happens, we lose our progress on knowing who is connected to who. The commissioner is the head of this snake and we’re cutting it off. Only then can we purge this damned force once and for all.” When there’s silence, he inclines his head towards the woman. “If that’s not for you, Wilcox, then you’re free to take your leave.”

The woman, Wilcox, is quick to shake her head. “I’m with you, Captain.” It’s a relief for Tim to finally be able to put a name to her face.

Gordon nods and begins to address the rest of the group. “Thank you, O’Connor. Wilcox, pick a partner and take O’Connor’s place, he needs to sleep at some point. The two of you will tail him all night. Montoya, keep an eye out on who he talks to, and that means everyone. I want to know the name of the poor sap who gets his coffee. Dismissed.”

They don’t all leave the rooftop at once, as Tim was almost expecting. Instead, they begin gathering together and talking in hushed voices. Two officers leave immediately, and only five minutes later do another group follow suit. Exactly five more minutes later, the amount of officers on the roof are down to two, standing at the edge of the roof. Gordon is smoking a cigarette. O’Connor is trying not to breathe in the smoke without seeming rude.

“How’re things at the academy?” Gordon says without looking at the officer beside him. O’Connor doesn’t seem to mind, considering the fact that he isn’t looking at his superior either. They’re both watching the city.

“Alright. The new rookies pick things up fast. I wanted to talk to you about that, actually.” Gordon motions for him to go on. “The academy is filled with dirt. The thing is, it seems these days it’s harder to train somebody to stay true and easier to let them listen to a sweet talker. They like the thought of having others at their back, and they like the idea of choices without consequences. I don’t like the look of it, captain. Just the other day I saw Lieutenant Branden meeting with my student after class, talking real low. He knows that we know what he knows, and still feels confident enough strolling up to  _ my  _ students and talking like everything is still some big secret, or like it ever was to begin with. It’s getting harder to do my job. How can I teach future cops how to shoot a gun when I know that by the time they graduate, half of them might use what I taught them in ways they shouldn’t? How can I teach them anything if I’m watching my mouth because one word will get them to rat me out? I can’t even trust my own trainees anymore.”

Gordon puffs out a slow breath of smoke. O’Connor crinkles his nose and turns slightly away. When Gordon finally notices, he snuffs the stick out on the roof’s ledge. “We can’t trust anyone, it seems. Do you know the names of all the recruits he’s talked to?”

“Not all, but I’m working on it. Didn’t know there were so many until last week.”

The captain nods, rubbing his temple. “Keep on it.”

O’Connor is hesitant when he nods. It’s the first time Tim has seen him not jump in responding to anything Gordon says. From what Tim can see, the man looks pained, far younger than Gordon and yet possessing the same face. He stuffs a hand in his pocket and turns away. He’s almost to the stairwell when Gordon speaks again. “O’Connor,” he says, finally detaching his eyes from the skyline. “You’re doing good work here. Don’t forget that.”

“I know, captain,” O’Connor says, before he leaves Gordon alone on the roof with nothing but a view of cold buildings for company. Tim concludes that he’s seen enough for tonight and slowly makes his way off his own roof, thinking about all that he’s heard.

* * *

Tim isn’t totally certain of when he became aware of the sensation, but by the time he’s three blocks away from the precinct, he has the prickling feeling that he’s being watched. He can’t be sure if it’s that or just his own paranoia acting up, though, so he turns into an alley and crouches in the shadows to see if the feeling persists once he’s less exposed. It does, but this time it’s accompanied by the clang of something hitting the metal of a rickety fire escape. Tim’s head snaps up and he comes face-to-face with Robin, Boy Wonder, sporting a massive deer-caught-in-headlights expression. 

Tim gapes, too caught off guard (and relieved) to bother with words. Robin recovers from the surprise of being caught and arches an eyebrow, attempting to lean on the fire escape. “What, can’t a guy”--whatever ‘cool’ effect he was going for is lost as the fire escape squeals in protest and Robin is so startled that he jumps away like the metal is going to bite him--”uh, catch a smoke break?” He brandishes a pack of cigarettes out of nowhere. Tim stares at him incredulously, uncaring that it causes them to lapse into somewhat awkward silence.

With nothing else to do, Robin plucks one from the pack and holds it out. The generous gesture is a little less-so, considering the young vigilante is three feet in front and at least ten feet above Tim. “Want one?”

“I don’t smoke,” Tim says.

“Oh,” says Robin, hastily putting it away. “Well, it’s gross, so. Don’t.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“Cool.” Another pause. “I used to smoke more. It was just in my belt because I forgot to take it out. I don’t really smoke either.” A self-conscious shrug. Another pause. “Well, that much. I mean, I’m trying to quit.”

“Why were you following me?”

“I wasn’t following you,” Robin replies too quickly. When Tim raises his eyebrows, Robin amends his mistake. “Okay, I was, but that’s only because I saw you next to the precinct and I was in the area and wanted to make sure you got home okay.” The last part is said more as a mumble than anything else. Robin must realise how ridiculous having a conversation at their distance is and starts to make his way down the fire escape. He actually uses the stairs too, much to Tim’s surprise.

“Do you normally walk random people home?” asks Tim.

“You’re not--” Robin goes to say, but stops mid-sentence. “Sometimes,” he says instead. “Do you normally ask so many questions?”

“Yeah.”

“You seem the type.” Robin makes it to the ground and awkwardly stands there before deciding to lean up against the alley wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

It doesn’t seem like Robin is leaving anytime soon, which makes Tim strangely anxious. He’s faced with his long-time hero but he’s found that he has no idea what to say, or at least what to say first. Yet, at the same time, this isn’t his hero. This is a replacement, and he wants to know why and he wants to know how, but he already knows without asking that his questions won’t be answered. So he asks, “Why were you in the area?”

“There’s a guy me and Bats are trying to snag and I was on my way to the meeting point,” says Robin with a nonchalant shrug. “I was going to be early anyway so the detour is fine.”

With as little fanfare as Robin said it, the information still piques Tim’s interest by maybe a little too much. He would never miss an opportunity to see Batman and Robin in action, and judging by the growing smile on Robin’s mouth, he’s certainly noticed Tim’s sudden excitement. “Yeah, he’s not a big fish but still really nasty. One of Falcone’s guys, and he’s been using his bar as a drop off point for the rise of blood money he’s been getting, and you can guess why.” Robin’s grin grows. “I can’t  _ wait  _ to see Falcone  _ flip  _ when we get his best hitman’s ass behind bars.”

Tim doesn’t realise that he’s still trying to hide in the crevice between dumpsters until he feels his knees protest. He gets up and approaches Robin as casually as possible, although he probably fails at the ‘casually’ part. “Who’s Falcone?”

“Only the biggest, baddest fish here,” Robin says with all teeth. He gestures grandly to the mucky alley around them. “This lovely beat and beyond is  _ his  _ turf.”

Tim feels his heart thump in anticipation with the implications of the information Robin has just given him, but before he can say anything about it, Robin has a finger up to his ear. “I’m almost there,” he says. “I had to stop to help somebody but I’m like, three blocks away. Yeah, got it. Sorry.”

“Batman?” says Tim.

“Yeah,” responds Robin apologetically. He rubs the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ll--”

“Can I ask you something?” Robin stops and tilts his head quizzically, even while Tim rushes to apologise. “Wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. What were you saying?”

“It doesn’t matter,” dismisses the Boy Wonder. “What did you want to ask?”

Tim still feels guilty, but if Robin doesn’t seem bothered by it then he supposes he shouldn’t either. “Well... I was just wondering where the guy is going to go once you beat him up?”

Robin looks at him like he’s grown two heads. Personally, Tim doesn’t feel like he’s warranted that kind of response and tries not to bristle under the attention. “Uh...jail?”

Tim snorts. “Yeah, right. You just said yourself that this is Falcone’s turf, and that’s Falcone’s man. You really think one of Falcone’s men is going to stay behind bars in his own territory?”

Robin frowns. “Well...Batman always just calls the police and leaves. It normally works.”

“Until they break out. How many criminals have you two captured  _ only  _ once?” Tim doesn’t know, but if pulling something from thin air and hoping it works is the only way to get Robin to listen to what he has to say next, then so be it.

Robin doesn’t seem like he has a response to that, just parts his lips a little and directs his gaze to the ground with furrowed brows.

“Exactly. And there are  _ so  _ many corrupt cops, right?”

“Right,” agrees Robin readily. Tim wonders why Robin, of all people, is so quick to believe in the faithlessness of the police force.

“So how come you and Batman just call the police, instead of a specific police officer?”

Robin looks at him for a long, tense moment. “Where are you going with this?”

“Officer Montoya or Officer O’Connor,” says Tim. “They’re not corrupt. Call one of them instead of just 911 to arrest him. He’s more likely to stay behind bars that way.”

“How do you know that?” asks Robin. Tim isn’t expecting the question, although he should have. It’s just that he was expecting Robin to ask  _ why _ Tim should be trusted instead of  _ how _ . He has to admit that it’s a relief to be taken on his word without suspicion for once, so he won’t look the gift horse in the mouth.

Tim wonders how much he wants to reveal. While he wants to trust Robin, the only Robin he knows is the Robin from before. He doesn’t know this one. And while Robin is probably trustworthy just for being the one in the costume and running with the Batman, Tim doesn’t know if Robin won’t try and stop Tim once he tells him his plans (as if he has a plan. At this point, he’s kind of just going with it). “You said you’re busting him three blocks away, right? Well, that block’s still under the immediate jurisdiction of the closest precinct, which is the one back that way. Officers Montoya and O’Connor are there, and they’re both on shift right now. If they’re the arresting officers, then the person being arrested gets all the way to the precinct until only a higher authority has the jurisdiction to release them. Except for this one, that higher authority is Captain Gordon, who Falcone can’t bribe either. And if you really want Falcone to get a little stressed out...well, that’s the way to do it.”

Tim thinks for a moment that he lost Robin, considering the boy isn’t moving an inch and it’s hard to tell what his eyes are doing from behind the mask. After a moment of processing, though, Robin laughs. Tim is a little taken aback, and thinks for a moment he’s being laughed  _ at,  _ until Robin says, “Do I even want to know where you got all that? Like, seriously, do you have every cop’s work schedule memorised or something?”

“Or something,” Tim admits sheepishly.

Robin shakes his head in disbelief, but Tim thinks he’s actually considering what he said. “Alright, I’ll try it out. I guess I owe you one. Or maybe Batman does. I get why I haven’t thought of that, I don’t really know all that much about jurisdictions and whatnot, but I don’t really get why Batman hasn’t.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t care,” Tim says, and they’re barely even out of his mouth before his words feel like they physically pain him. “I mean, he probably does care, but…” He trails off, not having thought up a good enough defense.

Robin looks just as shocked. “Uh, yeah. He definitely cares. He wouldn’t do this if he didn’t…” They stand there tensely for a moment before Robin comes back to himself. He straightens up and nods as if they’re concluding an important business meeting, and Tim has to search deep inside himself for the willpower not to smile at the attempted adult-like mannerisms. “Anyway, I have to go. I’ll...see you around, probably.”

“If you keep following me, you probably will!” Tim calls after him as Robin shoots a grapple line to the top of the building and sets off at a run. He doesn’t hear the reply.

* * *

Tim didn’t tell Robin everything, and he might have lied. But only a little. 

He breaths a sigh of relief when he sees Officer Montoya’s ponytail bobbing along with her as she wrestles a tall man’s wrists into handcuffs. Bullock is with her, grumpy as ever, the smoke from his cigar curling overhead. He doesn’t look like he’s much help, but he’s having fun gloating to the man bent over the hood of the first responder’s vehicle.

The thing is, if what Tim is thinking is correct, then Falcone is the name of the man in charge of the organised crime in these parts. And if that’s true, then no matter what, with the amount of corruption in the system and the amount of influence Falcone has, there will always be a way to get anyone Falcone wants back on the streets. The issue here is how to narrow his options.

Sure, there’s the dirty way. A physical break out is always possible. Maybe he could even be released in secret by a guard. But why go through all that trouble when there’s a quicker, easier option? If the arresting officer can’t be bribed, and the captain can’t be bribed, then who’s the next one that can be bribed in the chain of command?

None other than the commissioner. Gordon can’t find any evidence on the commissioner because the commissioner hasn’t met with Falcone, but why would he in the first place? If Tim wants evidence of their affiliation, he needs to make a meeting happen, and since Falcone is the one who holds influence over Loeb and not the other way around, that means there needs to be a reason that Falcone, or one of his men, would want to talk to Loeb.

Robin just happened to offer Tim the most obvious reason of all.

“Are you sure you’re not the one following me?” says a voice behind Tim and he jumps nearly out of his skin, whirling around to face a certain young vigilante sporting a shit-eating grin. Robin walks up to Tim and sits down beside his hiding spot behind a hedge of decorative bushes lining the sidewalk. “Pretty neat, huh? See that shiner over his left eye?” Robin curls his right fist victoriously. “I don’t like to brag, but that was all me.”

Tim snorts. “Was that before or after Batman knocked him out?”

“Hey!” Robin exclaims, and if Tim’s eyes are working correctly, then the Boy Wonder is actually pouting. “And here I thought  _ I  _ was your hero.”

“My noble bird in shining feathers,” Tim mock-swoons. Robin shoves him and Tim has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Jeez, when’d you get an attitude?” Robin says, huffing. “One minute you’re speechless, the next you’re making fun of me.”

If Tim had to guess, he’d say it had to do with the way Robin approached him this time, and the way he looked as he did -- like a strutting peacock parading its tail. All boyish arrogance with an air that reminds Tim all too much of a boy he left behind.

Tim’s enthusiasm dims at the reminder. Robin doesn’t notice. “I want to see  _ you  _ try and do any better. That guy’s huge! I had to stand on a table just to clock him in the right spot. But man, it was epic. Like a power punch. I jumped off the table and totally took him  _ down. _ ”

Tim wishes he had been there to see it, but he’s not going to tell Robin that. “Maybe you should have just sat on Batman’s shoulders. Probably would have been a lot easier.”

“No way. Whatever freedom I can get from him just to stretch my legs is a miracle. We were fighting totally different groups of people -- turns out our buddy had other buddies -- and I didn’t even end up needing any of his help. Maybe now he’ll actually let me do some things on my own.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Tim asks, watching as the perp is shoved into the back of Montoya’s cruiser. “You’re partners. You’re supposed to always work together, aren’t you?” There’s another pang as Tim thinks of Jason. It seems like as more time passes with no word, more things serve to remind Tim of his best friend.

“Sure. But it’s  _ constant.  _ I mean, between school, homework, training, and patrol, the only free time I have to myself is when I take a piss in the morning. Besides, Batman patrols without me whenever I get even a B. So much for teamwork,” Robin scowls.

Tim turns to examine Robin more closely, but no matter how long he looks, he can’t seem to imagine the lively Boy Wonder sitting behind a desk writing an essay instead of bounding over rooftops. The picture is all sorts of wrong. “Well, yeah. Batman does have a lot more experience than you. And you weren’t even a crime fighter a year ago.”

Robin eyes him. “Who’s side are you on?”

Tim shrugs. “Nobody’s. Just saying it like it is.”

When there’s a lull in their conversation, Tim takes out his phone and snaps a photo of the front of the bar -- mainly the sign with its name. He doesn’t think Robin would comment on it, but he’s wrong. “So, I know you didn’t come here to see me fight because you didn’t get here until after the police arrived, and there’s really no reason for you to be sticking around, so why are you actually here?”

“I’m just bored,” says Tim, attempting to shake Robin from his tail. Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as he would hope.

“And this is boring,” Robin deadpans. “If you were bored you would go home and play videogames. You’ve obviously been researching the GCPD for a reason, for some reason you know the backgrounds of various officers and can pick them out by name, and you’re weirdly invested in getting rid of mafioso’s for a twelve year old.”

“I’m fourteen.”

“And I’m the Queen of England,” says Robin. Tim huffs.

“How did you even know that?”

“Lucky guess. You’re deflecting.”

Tim sighs after a moment of consideration and starts fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt. Robin relaxes into a cross legged position and waits, and Tim knows he’s busted and it’s probably best to come clean, plus if he can get Robin’s help his life would be a lot easier, but he has no idea where to even  _ start.  _ “I’m trying to find someone,” he says simply.

Robin doesn’t buy it. “Yeah, you said that last time--”

“No, not Sam. I already found him. I was trying to find Sam so I could find a clue on where to find someone else.”

“Huh,” is all Robin says. “So you decided to stalk the GCPD?”

“I’m not  _ stalking,”  _ Tim defends immediately. He takes breath and it all just rushes out. “I’m just...okay. It’s a little complicated. Because my friend was kidnapped, so I need to find a clue on who kidnapped him, and to do that I need to find other people who were kidnapped, and to do that I need a list of who was kidnapped, and I need to get that from Captain Gordon, but to do that I need to bribe him, and to do that--”

“Holy shit,  _ breathe,”  _ Robin exclaims, wide-eyed. “Okay, your way of doing things is convoluted, we’ve established that, christ.” He draws a palm down his face.

Tim frowns. “If you didn’t want to know then you shouldn’t have asked,” he mutters.

Robin shakes his head. “I didn’t really get all of that, but if you want I can still help keep a look out for the guy.”

“Really?” Tim says, and he can’t decide whether he should be excited or skeptical.

“Really,” Robin agrees. “What’s his name?”

Tim smiles. “Jay.”

Silence. Robin just sits there facing him, his lips having parted just the slightest bit, and there’s no movement on his body. Tim’s smile morphs into a frown as he dares to wave a hand in front of Robin’s face. “Uh, hello? Anyone home?”

Robin swallows, then coughs, then animates again -- possibly too much. “Oh, yeah, totally. Just great. Um. Right, so, Jay.” He takes a deep breath and releases it to a very confused audience of one. “Does he have a last name?”

Tim wrings his wrists sheepishly. “Uh, probably.”

“So...what is it?”

“I sort of don’treallyknow?”

Robin proceeds to sit there and stare once again. “You don’t know?”

“It just never really came up?”

“It never came up?”

“Not really.”

Robin props the side of his face on his hand and mutters, “It never came up?”

“I just said that,” Tim replies, annoyed.

Robin shakes his head. “No, I wasn’t--nevermind. Well, that...complicates things. You seem to be really good at that.” They take a moment of silence together to think, before Robin continues, “What about a picture? If you have a picture I can...do some facial recognition thing-a-magig and find out where he is?”

“You probably won’t find where he is, but you think you can get a last name from that?”

“Sure I can,” Robin says, and Tim starts to smile out of giddiness. “I mean, the likelihood of him being kidnapped is really low. I doubt that’s what happened anyway.”

The smile promptly dies. Robin notices and startles a little at the glare Tim is suddenly delivering with full force. “Actually, nevermind.”

“What?” Robin protests, voice cracking as Tim starts to get to his feet. The police are gone by now, leaving them only illuminated by streetlamp. Tim briefly wonders where Batman is, then decides that right now, he doesn’t care. “Wait, what happened? Tim?”

“I just don’t need your help. I can find him on my own,” says Tim, yanking his arm away from where Robin had reached out to grab it.

“But I want to,” insists Robin.

“What, so you can tell me that I’m wrong, just like everyone else? You’re a crime fighter! You’re supposed to be the most vigilant when it comes to helping people and even you don’t want to believe that people are disappearing right from under your nose,” Tim snaps. “Whatever. I have a plan and I’m going to stick with it. I was doing just fine without your help.” He turns heel and starts to walk away. By the time he’s a block down, he realises that he doesn’t feel the sensation of being watched, and wonders if what he’s feeling instead is disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Any inaccuracies about the legal system/police procedure that you noticed up above is on purpose and was written to reflect Tim's relatively limited knowledge.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ almighty, I finally wrote it. I've had this specific scene in mind since I started writing this fic almost a year ago and I finally got it down on paper. I have reached an important milestone in my life.
> 
> Now it's time to grace you all with an 8k chapter. School is over and I've dedicated the majority of July for writing because I want to finish this before September. We'll see whether or not I'll actually succeed with that.
> 
> This isn't only the longest chapter I've written, but also my favourite, so I really hope everyone enjoys! <3

 When Tim gets home that night, he’s exhausted.

He’s also _livid._ Therefore, it doesn’t matter how tired he is, because he’s so worked up that he feels like kicking a wall down. There’s no one home, so he doesn’t bother climbing upstairs to his room. Instead, he angrily yanks open the fridge door and tears into a cup of yogurt like it had personally offended him.

“Some _hero,”_ he mutters, glaring at the view of Gotham that he can see from standing...well, anywhere. The wall of the penthouse is circular, and ¾ of the area of that wall downstairs consists of glass. He could spin around in the middle of his living room and see everything going on in the city. He turns his back to it, grabs a carton of milk, bowl, spoon and a box of cheerios, and stomps over to the glass wall closest to the stairs. He plops down into a cross legged position and fixes himself a bowl of cereal. “What’s his problem, anyway?”

But the sound of his voice spoken so softly in the empty penthouse is unnerving. He always speaks quietly, whether it’s in the company of others or the safety of his own thoughts. Tim fights to raise it. “What’s his problem?” It bounces back to him like an accusation. Not loud enough. It’s like the ability to raise the volume of his words is lost on him. He takes a deep breath, ignores the soft whisper in the back of his mind urging him to be quiet, to not disturb the air, and shouts: _“Who do you think you are?”_

The silence is shattered, scattered like light through a stained glass window, and yet all the more oppressive now that contrast has presented itself. It coaxes Tim to speak more, and oddly enough, it feels...good. Like he’s finally been given permission to lift the questions from the hole they’ve been hiding in, buried deep within his chest.

“Do you do that to everyone who asks for your help? Do you always shut them down before they even begin? You couldn’t even ask me why I think what I think before you doubted it,” he says to the windows. “Just like everyone else. You’re supposed to be different. You’re…”

He goes through half of his bowl before he speaks again, this time staring at the milk. “Has anyone ever doubted you?” he wonders. “Probably not. You’re the _Boy Wonder.”_

A _replacement,_ the whisper in his head reminds Tim. He’s the _replacement_ Boy Wonder.

The original wouldn’t have doubted Tim, would he? This guy isn’t the hero Tim looks up to. He’s just some substitute. An imposter for the first Robin. Yet, Batman lets him wear the suit.

What is it about whoever is under the new Robin suit that makes them worthy of an entire legend?

He doesn’t seem too special to Tim.

 _That’s not true,_ goes the treacherous whisper. No, because that suit alone instills Tim with something like awe every time he sees it. It’s not the person under the suit, it’s the suit itself -- it’s the colours and the name and what it all stands for. It’s the fact that no matter how Tim feels about the boy he photographed constantly for years being replaced, he knows that he could never do half the things that this new Robin can do, and could never be half as brave. Could never be half the hero.

Maybe half as cheeky, though.

He probably won’t ever admit it out loud, but the truth is that Tim’s brain short circuits every time he realises that _Robin_ is talking to _him,_ and hearing him imply that Tim might be wrong, or might be lying…

It hurt.

And the worst part is that Tim can’t get the conversation out of his head. Every detail of it, not just right before he left. He finds himself replaying every subtle expression on Robin’s face around his mask, every clue he mentioned about his life so that Tim can build an image of what it looks like, of who Robin might be during the day and what he might be doing.

He’s arrogant, Tim is almost positive of this. Cocksure and apparently has a hard time with authority, if the way he talks about Batman is any indication. It annoys Tim, the notion that Robin might not truly appreciate having someone like Batman in his life. A true partner.

_“Why would you want to do that? You’re partners. You’re supposed to always work together, aren’t you?”_

Someone to constantly have by his side. To guide him, teach him, and have his back. Tim thinks about his own parents with a frown, and considers that maybe…

It doesn’t matter.

_“Sure. But it’s constant. I mean between school, homework, training, and patrol, the only time I have to myself is when I take a piss in the morning. Besides, Batman patrols without me whenever I get even a B. So much for teamwork.”_

It’s better than only having time to himself. Tim can vouch for that.

He picks everything up and goes back to the kitchen, even going so far as to wash the dishes because he’s still restless. The night was a failure. Not only did Robin not believe him, but Tim didn’t actually make any worthwhile progress towards catching Loeb. He discovered the mole in Gordon’s Task Force and he set up a potential meeting between Loeb and Falcone, but what’s the use of that if Tim doesn’t know where or when they’ll meet up? They’re two adults that haven’t been caught by an entire task force of detectives and officers focused on them. What does Tim have that they don’t? What can he do that they can’t?

Nothing. Maybe Detective Bullock was right. Maybe he needs to find a different hobby. The thing is, it’s only partly a hobby. Tim has a bigger goal in mind. But if he can’t accomplish the steps leading up to that goal, what chance does he have of reaching his endgame?

He trudges up the stairs and flops onto his bed, not bothering to change his clothes just yet. He’s only there for a few seconds, though. The energy thrumming through his limbs moves him to his desk and makes him slide his notebook closer, the one he’s been recording his notes and thoughts in so far, but he can only stare at the blank page. It takes him a few minutes before he starts to absentmindedly write what he discovered that night.

 

-according to O’Connor, Loeb goes to bed at 9pm 

-taskforce probably keeps watch for the rest of the night 

-Loeb leaves work at sundown (doesn’t work night shift -- how many shifts are there?) 

-alternating patrol 

-Wilcox currently keeping watch + partner w/ Unknown Male (corrupt?) 

Taskforce: 

Gordon 

O’Connor 

Wilcox 

Montoya 

Unknown Male 

Unknown Male 

*possibly more on other shifts? 

 

Assuming that Wilcox has a non-corrupt partner, which is unusually likely considering the group of people around her, and assuming that Falcone knows that Loeb is being monitored (which would be assuming that Loeb knows he’s being monitored), then Loeb won’t be going anywhere at night. It’s...too many assumptions for comfort, but that’s all Tim has. Loeb is at work the rest of the time, where the Task Force will no doubt be keeping an eye on him.

Tim puts his face in his hands and tries to think. Robin’s voice arises unbidden in his mind.

_Sure. But it’s constant. I mean between school, homework, training, and patrol, the only time I have to myself is when I take a piss in the morning…_

The morning! Right after Loeb wakes up, before he goes to work, is the only time he isn’t being tailed. Officers have to sleep some time, and with Wilcox occupying at least one half of the team tailing Loeb tonight, she no doubt will manage to cut the patrol short. Tim’s eyes find his alarm clock. _11:51pm._ There’s still time.

He snatches the strap of his camera bag hanging off his desk and almost trips down the stairs in his haste to get to the elevator.

He stops abruptly right before he presses the button.

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

Where does Loeb live? Tim wants to slap himself for not following Wilcox from that rooftop. Never leave anything half finished. He should have known he would need an address eventually. Tim wracks his brain for anything he could use to figure it out. Google would only give Loeb’s office address and Tim doesn’t have the knowledge required to see if any social media posts were posted with a smartphone that had an activated Location tracker, although he knows that it’s possible.

He does know someone who has that knowledge, though. Multiple people, actually. But his own paranoia prevents him from using his personal laptop to message them, for the exact reason that Tim needs help with now, and no library in the entire country would be open at this hour.

He could break into one, but Tim figures that if he’s going to go to jail then it’s not going to be for something as lame as breaking into a public library. He could go to a friend’s house, but then he would have to admit why he needs to use their computer instead of his own.

He could see if his father has _his_ personal laptop here and then take it away from the penthouse before using it? No, that’s still too close to Tim for personal comfort. Also, if for whatever reason anyone on the chat would want to hack Tim’s computer, he isn’t sure that he wants them to be under the impression that they’ve been talking to the CEO of Drake Industries this entire time. Especially not if the chat gets discovered by the police.

With a groan, Tim decides that he can’t wait until he grows up and learns enough about computers to be able to successfully hide any personal information from other hackers. That’ll be the day.

There’s a computer in the lobby downstairs. If the location of that was found, Tim’s identity would still only be narrowed down to the couple hundred people currently staying at the hotel, not including employees. Tim figures that’s his best bet. He grabs his father’s black hoodie from the closet, stuffs three couch pillows in a grocery bag and places it under the hoodie around his waist (he looks so stupid and no one would ever fall for this, but at least no one would know his size or age from a security camera). He puts on his father’s reading glasses, his baseball cap underneath the hoodie, and hobbles his way back over to the elevator.

God, he really hopes no one is in the lobby right now.

Tim spends the ride down in anxious silence, growing increasingly annoyed by the overhead music, and the _ding_ from the doors opening sounds like a gunshot. The lobby is completely dark without even an emergency light to guide the way, and he steps into it with all the caution of someone...well, doing something that they really shouldn’t be doing.

He slides into the computer chair behind the front desk and squints as the desktop comes to life with a nudge of the mouse. Password protected. Of course.

Tim slumps back into the chair. Everyone who works at this desk uses this computer. How would they all memorise a ten-digit password anyway?

They wouldn’t.

Tim opens the first drawer. It contains nothing but staples, scissors, and pencils. The next has nothing but a giant planner. The rest of the drawers continue in this manner and Tim is about to lose hope until he decides to go back to the first one he opened and rifles through it, revealing a sticky note beneath the stapler.

_8No3390Net_

Thank god for lazy employees.

* * *

**[You have entered]**

**[ping: 301 ms]**  

**[2 Users Active, 4 Idle]**

**[legendsneverdie, gottagofast, intotheDARK and h3llkat are Idle]**

**[00:01] <you> Anyone alive?**

**[00:01] <tiffany101> just me**

**[00:01] <awsomeguy> and me! What up al???**

**[00:02] <tiffany101> not you. I’m telling al the future and in it your dead**

**[00:02] <you> Woah, sorry. Didn’t mean to get in the middle of a lover’s feud.**

**[00:02] <awsomeguy> shes just pissy bc i made her bf jealous on call and apparently hes an asshole when hes jealous**

**[00:02] <tiffany101> Im mad because YOURE an asshole when YOURE jealous.**

**[00:02] <awsomeguy> HA i wouldnt date you if you paid me**

**[You are now speaking privately to awsomeguy]**

**[00:02] <you> No offense, but I didn’t log on to get caught in the middle of drama. I need your help. No questions.**

**[00:02] <awsomeguy> yeah well any excuse to ignore her is a good one. Whats up?**

**[00:02] <you> What would you say if I asked you to find where Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb of the GCPD lives?**

**[00:02] <awsomeguy> i would say youre fucking weird**

**[00:02] <awsomeguy> but sure. He got a smartphone?**

Tim allows himself to indulge in pumping his fist and whispering, _“Yes!”_

* * *

 **[00:13] <awsomeguy> once i ping his phone, i can triangulate his location using nearby celltowers, easy as cake** 

**[00:13] <you> Go for it. How long do you think it’ll take?**

**[00:13] <awsomeguy> if I was being legal? Bout four hours. Working my magic like usual because im just that great? Two. maybe one**

**[00:13] <awsomeguy> but dude, im gonna tell you this now. Idk how close to his address im gonna get. I can probably narrow it down to a block or two but im not going through his carrier so...**

**[00:13] <you> That’s fine.**

Tim takes a calming breath and goes to rub his eyes, but encounters the glasses that he has pushed to the bridge of his nose because trying to look through them makes him dizzy. It’s his father’s back up pair, with an old prescription, but it’s still too strong for Tim. That’s when he remembers what he’s dressed like, why he’s dressed like this, and the potential cameras that could be trained on him right now.

He glances up, but he finds no cameras facing him from throughout the room. Which must mean that it’s in the corner behind him. He doesn’t recall having turned around at least.

**[00:13] <you> Can I ask another favor? Sorry to be doing this so much tonight. I promise I’ll repay you in whatever way I can.**

**[00:13] <awsomeguy> youre good man. I do this shit for fun. Also this is the first time youve asked for anything so i know youre not just free riding**

**[00:13] <awsomeguy> wdy need?**

**[00:14] <you> There’s a Grand Hyatt Hotel on Mercer St. When I log off, can you wipe the security footage in the lobby starting from 11:51pm?**

There’s no response for a few minutes. Tim starts grinding his thumbnail against his front teeth as he waits in anticipation.

**[00:19] <awsomeguy> that you?**

Without turning around, Tim waves.

**[00:19] <awsomeguy> k i know you said no questions but why the fuck are you using a shitty desktop in some hotel lobby? do you not have one? cuz i know a guy close to where you are who can hook you up. lil pricey but hes got good shit. does that thing still operate on windows 7? You using IE or something?**

**[00:19] <you> No, I have one. Maybe I’ll tell you about it later. I’m kind of in a hurry right now though. IOU?**

**[00:20] <awsomeguy> fine. But i want all the juicy details after this thing is over. Youve been asking some weird ass questions**

**[00:20] <you> Curiousity killed the cat.**

**[00:20] <awsomeguy> and satisfaction brought it back, asshole. semi.**

* * *

The sky is brightening over Tricorner when Tim finally sees a light turn on in a second story window. 

Awsomeguy, after two hours, had managed to narrow down Loeb’s possible location to three blocks in the middle of Tricorner. Fortunately for Tim, only one street on the southernmost side happens to be lined with houses, and it was there that Tim found one of the unnamed faces from the rooftop passed out in Wilcox’s red car (a car that Loeb would no doubt recognise parked outside his house). That was just pure dumb luck, because by then it was almost two am and no reasonable person would have kept patrol until then (right?). Wilcox was passed out beside her partner, so Tim was able to park his bike in a parallel alley and crouch down to keep watch. They left a half hour after he got settled.

Tim had printed out a map of the area all the way to the police station, highlighting in yellow all the possible routes to get to the station, and in blue, all the backroads and alleys that Tim could take while following in order to avoid detection. Tim would never normally be able to keep pace with a car, but the highest speed sign he’s seen is set at 35 mph, and he supposes it could be worse. He was also hoping Loeb would get caught in rush hour, which he thinks might actually happen going by the fact that it’s already 5am.

Tim personally likes taking his showers in the mornings, especially in the summer because he always sweats during the night from the infamous Gotham humidity. He forgets that not everyone is up to that sort of morning routine, so he expects Loeb to take much longer than the man actually does. It’s roughly 5:20am by the time he’s out the door, and Tim is both flabbergasted on how the man is awake enough to stand up straight and also thrilled, because Tim definitely doesn’t think Loeb’s shift starts anywhere near this early.

It’s a good thing Tim took the time to map out all parallel roads, as there’s certainly no one else around on the streets to conceal him. He almost starts biking so to get a head start, but remembers that his theory relies on Loeb _not_ going to the police station right away, so he waits until the heavy man gets into his car to see the direction that he’s headed.

It’s towards the police station. Tim frowns and takes off.

The chase reminds him immediately of a scene he saw on Sherlock, but with less cool camera angles and rooftop maneuvers. He has to maintain pace with the car so that he can see it at every intersection in order to make sure he hasn’t lost it. But every time he does get to an intersection, he has to wait and deliberately fall behind until he’s blocked from sight by buildings so that Loeb doesn’t spot him. Luckily, being forced to wait prevents Tim from missing most turns, and they’re three blocks from the station when Loeb takes a left into a metered, covered parking garage. Tim waits until the car disappears before he drags his bike over to a bike slot in front of a small, currently still closed deli and locks it in place. He ducks behind a corner just in time to see Loeb emerge from the garage.

Tim doesn’t think parking at the precinct is too difficult at this hour. Unfortunately, a person on foot in the twisting streets of Gotham is much easier to lose than a lone, noisy car, so Tim has to wait behind a street corner and watch with a hawk’s eye as Loeb makes his way down the street. The moment he turns another left, taking him out of sight, Tim runs like all hell’s broke loose to catch up.

As he’s running, he checks the time on his phone. 5:37am. His legs are shaking from how hard and fast he’s had to consistently pedal to keep up with Loeb’s Kia Spectra, and he’s starting to feel a bit bitter with how easy it must be to drive a car in comparison.

Somehow, he manages to stop before swinging around the corner, although it causes him to trip and he has to catch himself on a traffic pole. But when he peers around the corner, Loeb’s gone.

Tim fights down the swell of panic threatening to overwhelm him and tries to think logically. A man can’t just disappear. Where did he go?

Tim surveys the area, but it only causes his desperation to rise. There are countless buildings here -- it’s like the world decided to spite Tim and make this particular corner the most popular one for every tiny little shop that could serve as an unassuming base of operations for _anything ever._ There’s a small construction site to patch up part of a damaged (as in, there’s a hole in the cement with a fall dangerous enough to kill someone, curtesy of another Bane rampage) section of sidewalk, a fortune teller’s shop, a magic shop (there’s a difference?), a tourist shop with postcards featuring Gotham’s skyline sitting idly in the window, a currently closed street crepe counter, stairs leading to each individual apartment all the way down the street, a Mexican eatery, and more.

Tim starts to reason out every possibility, even as he knows that the longer he stands where he is, the further away Loeb becomes. First clue: Loeb parked his Kia in a general public parking space. Yet, Tim remembers his map indicating that there’s a wide backstreet behind the shops on the right, wide enough to potentially be parking spaces, and hidden enough to not warrant extra steps to conceal the personal vehicle of someone who didn’t want to be found. Tim can safely assume, at least for now, that Loeb isn’t in those shops. The Mexican restaurant on the left wouldn’t make much sense, because he isn’t sure that there are any Mexican criminal organisations that hold any territory in Gotham, and he isn’t sure they would be friends with the Italians anyway. Not to mention there’s probably another parking lot for it in the back. That leaves...any of the many apartments.

Do criminals often invite cops, no matter how dirty, into their homes for breakfast? Better yet, would any self-respecting, successful mafioso live in any sort of hovel located this close to the almost-slums of the west side, three blocks from a police precinct?

No, Tim doesn’t think they would. Which narrows down Loeb’s potential location to none of those buildings. Tim knows that the man turned down this street, and he would have made it only halfway up by the time Tim got there.

Halfway up the street, stairs descend underground, with a black sign announcing the Subway in big, bold white letters on the green railing above them. It’s the most logical illogical (why would Loeb park his car only to get on the subway?) solution. Tim sprints towards it.

His sneakers slap loudly on the smooth stairs, but they sound like raindrops compared to how thunderous his blood is rushing in his ears. He forces himself to move quieter and slower as every new inch of the subway platform in front of the stairs is revealed to him, and he’s about to despair that his guess was wrong and he’s most definitely lost Loeb now when he hears the sound of a familiar voice.

Tim is dizzy enough with relief, his pulse still muting the sound of his environment, that he can’t hear what Loeb says. When he peers around the stairs, Tim can see him hang up his phone and shove it into his pocket as he shifts around impatiently at the edge of the platform. Tim exhales slowly. The call must have drowned out the sound of Tim’s footsteps because Loeb hasn’t turned around either. There’s still a chance.

Except now Tim has to find a way to get on the same train as Loeb without being spotted. Where Loeb is currently standing, if experience serves, should be right in front of the first entrance to the train. There will also be one further down. If Tim runs from where he is to catch the back entrance, he would have to dash across the entire floor and would no doubt be seen by anyone and everyone in the vicinity. But the stairs make a wall on the right that creates a corridor, and if Tim can sneak his way through that, he’ll be shielded until he reaches the second half of the platform. It’ll be faster than going around above ground to reach an alternate subway entrance, and this way Tim can be sure that he doesn’t miss the train. The issue is making sure his shoes don’t make enough sound to clue Loeb to his presence.

Tim takes one step and winces at the softest _tap_ his flat shoes make against the shiny-smooth floor. He stares down at his sneakers with a frown before reaching down to impulsively yank them off. Clad only in his black socks (and thank god for that, because he’s not sure he wants to see just how filthy the ground of a subway platform is), he inches his way down, hugging the wall. Loeb is still turned away when Tim grabs onto the railing for support and swings himself around into the corridor, because the floor is much more slippery than he gave it credit for and running is an impossible task.

Unfortunately, he still loses his footing and topples onto the ground. Fortunately, he twists to land on his side and avoids banging his elbows, knees, or head, making his fall nearly soundless. Tim scrunches his face up in disgust at the ground and scrambles to get up.

Keeping an ear out for the sound of an approaching train, Tim braces his hand against the wall and cautiously makes his way to the other end of the corridor. It’s longer than he remembers, and the closer he gets the more anxious he becomes. By the time he’s reached the end and is trying to shove his shoes back on, he hears the squeak of a train stop.

Fresh adrenaline pumps into his veins and Tim leaves his shoe only half on, wearing it like a slipper, for favor of spying on Loeb’s position. The moment Loeb passes through the doors and sits down, Tim sprints for the back doors.

What Tim didn’t account for is the fact that both doors lead to the same car. The moment he gets to the doors, they start to close. He crouches and very nearly has to crawl in order to make it inside in a small enough position so to still be concealed by the seats. This quickly puts him a fetal position in front of the train doors, and he can’t recall the last time he felt this ridiculous in his life. Flashing through his mind are scenarios where Loeb gets up to stretch his legs and spots Tim ever-so-casually hunched on the floor, and he waits with bated breath to be caught. Next time, he’ll plan this better (and of course there’s going to be a next time -- Tim is self-aware enough to know this much).

He desperately hopes that there aren’t many stops with potential early birds.

Except Tim forgot that the universe hates him, so there is. The very next stop, in fact. Tim peers through the window to see five people approaching the door, and really. It’s still only 6 o’clock. What sort of Satanic boss forces people to be at the office right now?

The doors open and the first person to spot him is a woman in a blue pantsuit, who stares at him with the most bewildered expression. Tim half-crawls out of the train, hops onto the platform, and stands up to give the woman a friendly nod. Luckily, the train waits for no man _or_ woman and she forgoes questioning him in order to make it on, leaving Tim to stroll casually back in after her and take his own seat a little ways down, on the same side, so that her body mostly shields him from Loeb’s view.

The four other people who come on also stare at him. He immediately takes out his phone and pretends it doesn’t bother him.

The train car gradually begins to fill up and Tim checks the time almost obsessively. The most people climb on at 6:30 and Loeb doesn’t move a muscle. The overhead starts announcing its last stops when at 6:35, Loeb finally slips off. The thing is, if Loeb wasn’t wide enough to have accidentally shoved himself into an angry man who favored loud cursing, Tim might not have noticed, even for his vigilant watch. With all the bodies now starting to crowd together, all moving as they load onto the car, Loeb’s own movements are unremarkable.

As Tim scrambles to get off in time, he supposes that’s the point. Tim briefly wonders if he would wake up as early as Loeb just to lose a potential tail (the answer is no). When they emerge on the surface, Tim doesn’t immediately recognise his surroundings, but then he spots Gotham University with its famous gothic architecture sprawling out across its massive courtyard nearby and puzzles out their location. Even if that didn’t give it away, Loeb is already beelining across the street, where people are starting to fill in the halls of Brubaker Mall.

Tim had only come to this waterfront street market a few times with his parents, and not for any other reason but to show visiting relatives the sight and buy a few handmade trinkets for fun. It’s situated in the southwestern corner of the Coventry, looping its way around from bordering Gotham River to following the beginnings of Finger River, and has been in operation as a public market since the early 1900’s. Tim used to think it was relatively innocent, just another place for the locals to buy their fresh daily cod, but it wasn’t until he visited here with Jay that he discovered a whole new angle with which to look at it.

Being so old, so overcrowded, and so very hard to navigate with its massive size and ill-organised expansion efforts, it’s also a bustling center of black market activity. Instead of bothering to build their own separate place, criminals have found it convenient just to use the tourist sensation as a cover for their own transactions. While police are aware of it, they also can’t do much to prevent it for fear of disrupting tourist activity.

Tim doesn’t know how to feel about Loeb’s new destination. On one hand, it’ll make spying a lot easier with all the cover that the separate stalls provide, but on the other hand, all the nooks and crannies that Loeb can disappear into are already starting to make him nervous. He doesn’t have much choice about it, though. He’s forced to follow.

It must be more Loeb’s own paranoia than anything he’s seen in his peripheral that causes him to start constantly looking over behind his shoulder. The first time, Tim was conveniently able to spin around and peer intensely at a relatively average looking fish, causing the stall owner to frown at him suspiciously. All he did was give an awkward thumbs up and then fast walk to keep up with the commissioner’s stubby legs. But like Tim already noted, the place is crowded -- not just with people, but with the sheer amount of things to buy and places to buy them. Tim starts ducking beneath tables and behind corners and into opening shops to avoid detection, and he doesn’t know how he manages to get away with it, but by the time Loeb makes his way downstairs and starts turning into narrow corridors with graffiti splattered walls that reek like rotten seafood, the man is none the wiser to the determined 12 year old behind him.

Tim slows his pace when Loeb does, which happens to be in the corridor below the stairs that lead up to the bathrooms Tim is never able to find whenever he visits. The corridor starts out large before narrowing with a sharp jut of the wall, and Tim is able to duck into that dramatic alcove in order to spy on Loeb, who has now stopped to catch his breath.

They wait.

And finally, lo and behold, a man eventually comes down the stairs dressed with a sharp, hard look. Tim, who has taken to kneeling with one foot propped just in case he needs to spring to his feet quickly, presses the record button on his phone where it’s supported by the wall. He slowly raises his camera and focuses in on the men.

It takes everything in him not to laugh in relief with the giddiness rising in his chest.

* * *

By the time Tim gets all the way back on the subway, receives directions from an old lady sitting in the seat next to him, retrieves his bike and makes it home, it’s 7:47am and he has officially pulled his first all-nighter. Biking back was excruciating -- his legs were sore from his earlier exercise and he was dizzier than he remembers ever being, and now he barely has the energy required to wheel his bike into the lobby. 

Ryan is behind the front desk, and he almost manages to greet Tim with a smile before his eyebrows furrow in alarm. “Kid, what are you coming _back_ from at 8am? You shouldn’t even be awake,” he says, and then he must take in Tim’s completely exhausted posture because he rises from the desk. “Are you okay?”

“Mmhm,” Tim hums and relinquishes his hold on the bike when Ryan grabs the handlebars. Tim yawns widely, struggling to keep his eyes open and starting to sway sideways as a result. He had been wide awake before he got on the subway. Sitting down for the twenty minutes it took the train to circle all around Gotham before getting to his stop was more than enough time for Tim to start to feel the fatigue stamped into his very bones.

“Jesus,” Ryan says, but this time it’s with a hint of amusement. He gets a firm but undemanding grip on Tim’s upper arm in order to slowly guide him to the elevator, one hand leading the bike. Tim mumbles something that he doesn’t catch. “What?” the man prompts, tilting his head to better hear the boy.

“Don’t tell my parents?” Tim asks, the words less slurred but even quieter. Ryan laughs.

“Sure, kid, sure. Who was it? A girl?”

That makes Tim smile, still riding the wave of success, but he doesn’t have enough energy to elaborate. Luckily, Ryan takes that as a confirmation. After getting Tim into the elevator and putting in the right code, he walks away laughing about how ‘they just keep starting younger’.

Tim passes out on the couch and when he gets up, it’s already 5pm. He blinks owlishly at the time on his phone, disbelieving that he had slept for ten hours straight, but decides that he’s too comfy to bother getting up just yet. Passing out on the couch becomes convenient, because now all he has to do for entertainment is wrap his arms tighter around the throw pillow originally at his feet and turn on Netflix.

Hunger that feels like starvation and an urgent need to pee force him up only an hour later. The sun still isn’t any closer to setting. After ordering pizza and whining at the feeling of his stomach eating itself for the fifteen minutes it takes to arrive (Ryan calls him -- Tim had forgotten that the pizza delivery man can’t come up to his place, considering they would need a key and a code), he decides to make the best of his time and take his camera to Bartells.

The sun has finally set when Tim strolls through the front doors of the police precinct, doubting that his legs have any bones because all he feels is jelly, and stares the receptionist in the eye. She looks down at him, unimpressed. “Can I help you?” she asks.

“I need to see Captain Jim Gordon,” Tim declares.

An eyebrow is raised. “Do you? And why’s that?”

“I just do,” Tim says, attempting to squash his mounting frustration. The woman gives him a long look, which only serves to irritate Tim more, and finally picks up the phone.

“What was your name?” she asks Tim.

“Alvin.” He figures that if Gordon doesn’t immediately recognise Tim from his parents, not knowing his real name will buy Tim at least some time before he gets tattled on.

With a nod, the woman turns a little away to show that she’s no longer addressing him. “Captain? There’s a boy here that says he needs to speak to you. Uh-huh. Got it.” She hangs up and returns to her computer. “The Captain is currently busy. If you--”

“No, I know he’ll see me,” Tim insists. The woman frowns.

“He--”

“Call him again and tell him it’s about his Special Task Force.”

The frown stays on her face, now with some confusion, but after a brief staring contest she picks the phone up again. After a quick exchange, Tim feels satisfaction bloom in his chest at the look of surprise on her face when she tells him where his office is.

Gordon is already standing when Tim opens the door.

It’s the first time he’s seen him up close in two years. He pauses to see if there’s any glimmer of recognition on Gordon’s part, but receives none.

That’s fine, he thinks. All the better for him.

“Who are you?” Gordon demands immediately.

There’s a part of Tim (okay, a _large_ part), that’s tempted to say ‘your worst nightmare’, but he likes to consider himself having at least a semblance of self-control. He really wishes Gordon would sit down. The height difference is starting to annoy him.

He blatantly ignores Gordon’s question. “I’m here to make a deal with you.”

There’s a moment of incredulous silence on Gordon’s part. “A deal?” he echoes, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. He exhales slowly and drags a hand across his face. “And what on Earth would you be making a deal for?”

“Wrong question,” Tim quips. Gordon’s head lifts and he appraises him dubiously. “You should be asking what kind of deal.”

“Alright. Humour me. What _kind_ of deal?” he asks, before turning and going to sit down behind his desk in a move that clearly shows, even if subconsciously, that he doesn’t consider Tim a threat.

Tim grins like a shark and throws only one of the pictures he has of Loeb down, where he’s talking to a man whose back is facing the camera. “This kind of deal.”

Gordon’s frown deepens as he slowly picks up the photograph and examines it. “Where did you get this?” Then, after a moment, “And why?”

“You, Captain Gordon, have been putting together a secret task force consisting of your most trusted officers in the homicide department for the purpose of weeding out corruption in the force. Is that right?”

Gordon has tensed up, his shoulders stiff as stone, and he opens his mouth, obviously prepared to start firing off questions. Tim doesn’t give him the chance. “Thing is, while the true source of the corruption -- Carmine Falcone and his posse, mainly -- is untouchable, there’s another source that, if brought down, would go a long way to finally cleaning up the force. Without dealing with it, there’s no reasonable way you could. That source is Commissioner Gillian B. Loeb. Problem is, as far as finding evidence goes, he’s clean. You’ve been at this for months now and have nothing to show for it. And I know why.”

“Is there a reason you’re telling me all of this?” Gordon finally asks in the ensuing silence, the fingers gripping the photograph tightening, with the only indication that they are being that the edges of the photograph crinkle inwards.

“As Captain, you have access to all the missing people’s reports given to the police. In return for information on the _mole_ watching you, and for picture and video recorded evidence on Commissioner Loeb’s affiliation with the mafia, I want every bit of information on every missing person reported in the last year.”

For all that Jay waxed poetic about Jim Gordon all that time ago, he never once gave credit where credit is due for the man’s impeccable poker face. Tim wonders if it’s intentional or something that’s acquired after years of dealing with bullshit. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

Tim is almost, _almost_ about to show Gordon the gallery on his camera, but then he has to consider Gordon’s angle. If Tim hands over his camera, what’s to say that Gordon will actually give it back? He wants to believe Gordon’s an honest man, but how far does that honesty reach? And how much has he changed in the last two years? Tim puzzles it over for a moment, but then decides to take his phone out from his pocket and walk towards the desk, holding the screen up to his chest so that Gordon can see but can’t touch. He clicks to a random point in the middle of the video he took that morning.

_“...to us. This is a warning. Keep your officers in line or get rid of them."_

No sooner had the video started then Tim promptly stopped it. He points down at the man standing across from Loeb with his finger. “That’s Christopher Castillo. His face is a little less known, unless you pay attention to Louisa Falcone’s escapades in Italy. Since coming back to the States, it’s fair to assume that he’s continued to act as an enforcer for the family. By the way, you should really do something about Brubaker Mall. That place is a breeding ground for all sorts of shady stuff.”

Once Robin had given Tim the last name of Falcone, it wasn’t hard from there for Tim to research what the media has on him. For someone so untouchable, he’s rather often in the public eye. A known threat in plain sight, him and his entire family. Fortunately, it makes it rather easy to put the names to faces.

Gordon is hunched over his desk as if that will get him closer to the video, but once Tim stops talking he must realise his posture because he deliberately shifts to lean back. He pauses to examine Tim more carefully than he had the first time. “Alright, say I believe you. What makes you think I have to meet your demands?” He doesn’t let Tim answer, which might be for the better. Tim is startled by that response -- one of the possibilities he hadn’t accounted for. Complete indifference. “You’ve shown me evidence pertaining to a crime, evidence that you’re withholding in the hopes of bribing an officer of the law. By withholding evidence relevant to an ongoing investigation, you’re committing obstruction of justice, and I can legally keep you in my office with no consequences to myself until you relinquish your findings. That is, if I don’t decide to just arrest you, which would give me the authority to take anything on your person with or without your permission. Obstruction of justice is a crime, making _you_ a criminal.”

Oh.

Gordon may be good at a poker face, but Tim can tell when an adult feels smug at his expense. Tim knows his own strengths and he knows his own weaknesses, and it’s mostly because of Jay. While Tim is able to plan scenario A through Z and back through Z again, that’s the best he can do. Strategize for every possibility so that he doesn’t have to improvise one, because improvisation has never been a strength. He’s always assumed that improvisation isn’t necessary if someone just takes the time to _prepare._ But throughout the years, Jay has proven to Tim that thinking up an escape on the spot is just as valuable as planning ahead, and that sometimes, Tim can’t always plan for every scenario.

It’s only now that he truly understands what that means. Luckily, he has the normally annoying habit of instant replay. Gordon’s words rush through his head. “What ongoing investigation?” he presses, channeling everything Jay has ever taught him. “An investigation would have to be official to be considered ongoing. How do you arrest someone for obstruction to an investigation that doesn’t exist?”

“Our investigation in corruption is secret, but not nonexistent. Keeping it secret doesn’t matter anymore if I have all the evidence,” Gordon calmly explains. As if Tim is being ridiculous.

“It doesn’t matter to _you_ . Everyone already knows you’ve had it out for the corrupted officers on the force. It’s why your continued employment in the force is both uncertain and controversial, and it’s why Loeb needs to _go --_ before he finds the excuse he’s been waiting for to fire you. That’s one of the reasons you’ve zeroed in on him. You know it’s only a matter of time before he tries to frame you again, and maybe this time you won’t be so lucky.”

During Tim’s brief excursion into right wing news sources for information on Jim Gordon, it was obvious many people there didn’t like him. But everything has a source, and going back, Tim soon found that it’s because of all the accusations piled up against him, refuted successfully by expensive lawyers -- cheating, embezzlement, corruption. “It doesn’t matter for you if everyone finds out what you’ve been doing, because in a way, they already know. But it’s not just you. What about Montoya? What about O’Connor? Are you willing to risk their jobs and safety in the police force just to get the upperhand over some middle school kid you know nothing about? Because I’ll talk. Don’t think I won’t. If you take this evidence from me, I won’t have anything to lose. And what of all the men on the nightshift with Montoya who would love some payback after having their partner thrown off the force? Or the people who would go after O’Connor just to protect their jobs?”

“Detective Montoya and Officer O’Connor are adults who accepted the risks of their jobs the moment they agreed to participate,” refutes Gordon.

“I wonder how creative they can get?” Tim says, pressing on anyway. “Do you think they’ll stick with embezzlement and bribery? Or would they move on to harder crimes? How easy do you think it is to frame someone for murder?” Tim’s heart pounds hard in his chest and he hopes to whoever looking down that his voice doesn’t come out shaky. This is something he remembers Jay doing. Hyperbole, over exaggeration. The worst case scenario. Bring it up and put it in the front of someone’s mind -- there’s no better way to instill doubt in someone than with the hint of possibility.

Gordon stares at Tim, evenly and quietly. The silence is deafening, and the cacophony happening in Tim’s head makes his ears feel like they’re ringing.

“What’s your name?”

And Tim, adrenaline high and truly confident for maybe the first time in his life, answers, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Gordon turns to his computer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I base a lot of Gotham on Seattle, where I live (even though I know that I should technically be basing Gotham on New York -- I’m biased). I decided that Gotham would totally have a famous waterfront market like we do here. Pike Place Market in Seattle is like our number one tourist spot and I always stop by every time I have some free time downtown. I’ve been so many times and yet somehow I find a new place with every visit. A little freaky.
> 
> Anywho, if you guys didn’t notice, every single thing in Gotham is named after a Batman writer (Grant Park for Alan Grant, Dixon Docks for Chuck Dixon, Sprang River for for Dick Sprang, Aparo Park for Jim Aparo, Port Adams for Neal Adams, Moench Row for Doug Moench -- hell, Commissioner Loeb is named after Jeph Loeb) so I decided to continue the trend for Ed Brubaker. Originally, I was going to just use Meadowdale Mall, as that’s now a “mostly illegal street market” in the comics (Nightwing Rebirth Vol. 2), but as that’s in Bludhaven and I don’t doubt I’ll be writing something taking place in Bludhaven some day (especially with how hooked I am on the Rebirth), I didn’t want to move it around.
> 
> So...what did you guys think? c; Was Tim a little too evil or is he finally growing into the epic vigilante he was always meant to be? Does Jay count as a good influence or a bad one?
> 
> Thanks for reading and see you all next chapter!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to have two chapters out a week, but next week my mother is having a wedding and my favourite person in the world who I never see because he used to live on another continent and now lives in another state is visiting for a week, so I guess that's not going to happen. But still. I will try my hardest. I'm determined to get this thing done this summer!
> 
> Enjoy. c:

“What about that one?”

“That one’s for kids,” Stephanie says. Her attention doesn’t seem to be on scanning the fairgrounds more than it is on Tim, though, which makes him oddly nervous. She’s hooked an arm around his elbow and has taken to making walking difficult for the both of them in favor of clinging to that arm like a koala.

Tim doesn’t know how, but Metropolis is somehow cooler than Gotham is, with a nice breeze that Tim only really finds in September. The heat warming his shoulders is coming from the direct sunlight instead of the suffocating pressure it is in Gotham, when the cloud cover traps it to the streets in a way that makes an 80 degree day look like 60 and feel like 100. “Okay,” agrees Tim, and he just waits for Stephanie to make a decision instead of putting him on the spot.

She’s apparently in no hurry, content to bump his hip with hers as they stroll slowly around a pond. They’re on the opposite part of Metropolis from Gotham, so they can’t see the towering spires in the distance, but they can see the rolling hills where the fair has temporarily made its home tapering away from the massive city.

Swimming desperately on top of each other are large, grey-backed fish with gaping mouths opening to anyone who passes by. There are coin machines attached at intervals along the fence containing food pellets. Stephanie brings them to a stop at one and asks for her wallet, which Tim has been carrying because her shorts don’t have real pockets.

“Are you okay?” she asks as she takes out a quarter and inserts it. Tim is only half-listening to her. His attention is occupied by the swarm of people around him as he takes the brief reprieve to scan as many faces as possible.

“Yeah,” Tim assures her. “It’s just really hot.”

She frowns. “Did you drink water?”

The thing about Gotham and its four season cycle is that two of those four seasons are moderately cold with a ton of rain, one is cold enough to freeze a dead body into a block of ice in the brief periods between more rain, and then the last season hits with temperatures rivalling the pits of hell as if it’s trying to make up for lost time. Suddenly, drinking water is a requirement so to not land a trip in the hospital and fainting by heat exhaustion is all too common. Tim has gotten used to the heat now, but when he was younger and wasn’t likely to step outside voluntarily, for the first month of summer he was toppling over from dizzy spells and was almost always too drained to walk any sort of distances. Dehydration became a term he actually paid attention to only once he turned eleven. He thinks that might be the reason for Stephanie’s habitual mothering. Tim has learned how to take better care of himself now, but she doesn’t know that. He nods without looking at her.

“Eat food?”

“Yup.”

“Bring sunscreen?”

“Put it on before we came.”

“Don’t like me?”

“Yup,” Tim says, before he registers Stephanie’s words and panic seizes his chest like a vice. He whirls around. “No! I mean -- wait. You’re my closest friend, Steph.”

Luckily she doesn’t seem terribly offended, but she isn’t sporting her usual wide grin either. “Then why are you scanning the crowd like you’re trying to find an excuse to get away?”

Tim stares at her for a moment, floundering to come up with an adequate response. “I’m not!” he insists. “I’m just...”-- _trying to find the man that he’s supposed to be stalking for a sort of creepy internet friend who’s probably a blackmailer who he’s never met in real life--_ ”looking for elephant ears.”

Stephanie analyses him for a moment with that squinty-eyed look that still hasn’t changed from when they were little. The way Tim squirms beneath it hasn’t changed either. But eventually her expression brightens up and she rolls her eyes in exasperation, pointing a thumb over her shoulder. “They were at the entrance, stupid, right next to the Dip ‘N Dots.”

Tim smiles sheepishly and wrings his wrists. “Whoops?” But it gets a smile out of her, one of her normal ones, and Tim exhales heavily as she turns to start tossing food to the fishes. That was a close one. He has to be more discreet.

Originally, Tim was supposed to scout the target Legendsneverdie gave Tim out in a small coffee shop. The target is a regular there, and it might be because the place has yet to install decent cameras. Legends has been compiling a list of his associates, and Tim’s job is to follow the target around to all the places he visits that avoid surveillance and help complete that list. Tim has no idea who this man is. He doesn’t even know his name. Legends gave him a face and a location and that was it. But plans changed, and it just so happens that the man is due for an important appointment at the Metropolis fair in approximately three hours. Tim’s new job is to find him at that appointment and take pictures of every person involved, then report back whatever he hears.

Easier said than done. First of all, the day also happens to coincide with the day Tim agreed to go with Stephanie to the same fair. Second of all, and perhaps most importantly -- he has _no freaking clue_ where the guy is supposed to be.

But the hardest part is making sure Stephanie doesn’t suspect a thing.

Tim leans up against the fence, arms propped up and eyes looking out at the crowd with seemingly little attention. “So?” he prompts, turning to briefly meet her eyes when she faces him. _Eye contact is key._ “How’s school been without your trusty sidekick?”

Stephanie snorts and offers him some food pellets. He starts tossing them in the pond one by one just to see the fish wrestle each other. “Bo-oring,” she complains, slumping against the fence. “Bette keeps ditching me. You know she hasn’t texted me once since school ended?”

“Have you texted her? Maybe she’s just busy,” Tim suggests.

Stephanie blows her bangs out of her face. “I always text her first. Apparently she doesn’t think I’m worth her time enough to return the favor.” She side eyes him. “What’s your excuse?”

Tim appropriately shrinks in on himself. “New school, new classmates, and a hell of a huge homework load? I swear I didn’t forget about you, Steph. But there was end of the year testing like you wouldn’t believe. Private school doesn’t kid around.”

She deflates at that. “Yeah, yeah, I bet. You’re the smarticle particle here.” He snorts at that, the ridiculous phrase coming out in such a dejected tone bringing a smile to his face. It seemed that was what Stephanie was going for, judging by her now accomplished expression. “What about your new friends? Any of them get sick of you yet?”

“Wow, mean,” Tim says, clutching a hand to his chest like he’s been wounded. Stephanie latches back onto his arm and keeps walking. “Bernard is in France and all he does is spam text me before the sun comes up whining about his bunkmate, but never responds when I text him back. He also keeps sending a pictures of dogs and seems convinced that they’re all French dogs just because they happen to be in France. He doesn’t seem to get that a German Shepherd is still a German Shepherd no matter where it is.” She laughs at that, and Tim feels some of his frustration ebb away. “Ariana keeps answering the phone in Russian everytime I call her because apparently it’s all she speaks now that her relatives are visiting. I’ve only video-chatted with Cass like, two times. If that. I have no idea what she’s up to, but I mean. It’s kind of hard to ask. But we’re still pretty cool. Ariana made plans to go to GameStop when Bernard gets back as a ‘last celebration of freedom’ party before school. You in?”

Stephanie is skeptical. “Would they be okay with it?”

“Totally. Ariana wants to meet you, actually.”

“She knows who I am?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Of course she knows who you are. You didn’t really think I’d forget about you, right?”

Stephanie tucks a stray hair strand behind her ear. It’s a nervous habit of hers, a way of stalling for time while she figures out what to say next. “Kind of. I don’t know. You never seem able to hang out. I missed you, and then you had all these new friends…”

Tim squeezes her arm with his. “That’s just because you were my only friend at Robbinson.” He shrugs self-consciously. “I’m not making new friends, I’m just making more. Give me some credit, Steph.” He twists to look her in the eyes so that she can see his eyebrows when he wiggles them and says in a theatrical voice: _“Don’cha know I’m not like the other boys?”_

Stephanie shoves him and he stumbles into another teenage girl walking in the opposite direction. She’s taller than him, too, so when he turns to face her his line of sight goes right to her chest, and he has to make a very awkward, very hasty retreat while stammering his apologies. Stephanie is cracking up all the while. “Okay, _now_ I forgive you,” she exclaims when he hurries back to her side.

“Jerk,” he says, attempting to glare. It fails. “You orchestrated that.”

“Don’t blame _me_ because you wanted to get up and personal with some chick’s boobs. Just because you can’t--” Tim lunges for her sides before she can finish her sentence. She squawks before dissolving into laughter. “Eeek! Stop! Stop! I give! I won’t make fun of you for your inability to get a date!”

“You just did!”

Stephanie punches him in the gut to get away and, while Tim is bowled over, makes a break for the inflated bouncy house.

* * *

Of course, it isn’t as simple as that for Stephanie to warm up to Tim again. Their banter is as easy as ever, but she’s still more reserved than Tim remembers her being. She animates the most after they find the zip line, and after a detailed description of the same sight that Tim saw, and a bordering philosophical conversation involving how small Gotham looks from so far away, she finally relaxes.

Now, it’s one hour before the appointment is set to happen and he’s as antsy as he was walking into Gordon’s office (and that’s a whole other thing to think about -- he spent that entire night lying in bed, rambling at the ceiling and occasionally screaming excitedly into his pillow. The list he needs is tucked safely into his drawer and exists as a lead weight in the back of his mind, where all other distractions are temporary and fleeting and his thoughts always turn back to how badly he wants to take another look at it). They’re in the middle of a very long line for cotton candy and Stephanie is retelling the epic of how her friend broke into the school to get her phone from her locker when Tim sees him.

He’s separated from the crowd and Tim was watching him because he was wondering if the man had lost his child -- after all, a lone middle-aged man is an uncommon sight at a fair. In fact, anyone alone at all is an uncommon sight. Tim only recognises him because he turns around to look over his shoulder. He’s currently making the trek up a particularly steep hill, to where Tim can see the bright colours of more attractions between the tall trees crowding the top. Tim breathes a sigh of relief even while adrenaline pumps itself through his blood.

The feeling is familiar. Tim doesn’t know what to think about the fact that stalking people has now apparently become a common pastime for him.

Tim starts dancing from foot to foot as Stephanie keeps talking, making sure to be as obvious and jittery with his movements as humanly possible. It isn’t hard, not with his nerves as lit up as they are. The moment Stephanie notices, Tim blurts, “Ireallygottagotothebathroomberightbackbye,” and sprints off.

He hears her call, “Tim, wait! I’ll meet you--” before she’s drowned out by the loud ringing of someone winning one of the nearby booths. He runs in the opposite direction of the man, veers around the corner of the mirror maze, then continues until he reaches the same hill from a different angle. He glances behind him only briefly to make sure Stephanie isn’t in pursuit -- she's probably still in line -- before trying to get up the hill as fast as possible, because he’s exposed until he reaches the trees.

Tim stops to catch his breath, panting loudly as he enters the small clearing behind the tree line. A couple heading back down the hill openly stare at him. A thing about Metropolis, Tim has found, is that its citizens are much less self-conscious about being caught looking at someone. The moment anyone makes eye contact on the streets of Gotham, it’s customary to walk as fast as possible in the opposite direction. He can’t shake that particular Gothamite habit, so he watches the dirt intently until they pass.

There’s a moment of panic when Tim looks back up and doesn’t immediately see his target, but luckily his target happens to be the only one around wearing a jacket. Tim tries not to think too hard on the implications of that. He tries to head into the bushes and trees for cover to continue following the man, but underestimates just how loud bushes can be, as well as how often brambles can snag onto his shoelaces and the sheer discomfort of snapped twigs poking at his arms. He quickly retreats.

Tim stands and watches which path the man seems to be taking before heading to a separate path that looks like it eventually intersects with the first. Fortunately he guessed right, and Tim spends the entire rest of his time slowly weaving his way around attractions and branching paths, sending aimless texts to Bernard to look like there’s a purpose to his wandering.

When Tim glances up from his phone, he sees that his target has stopped at a bench in a small clearing obscured by trees and bushes. Apart from him, the area is deserted, and Tim puts his phone up to his ear as he passes through.

“Hey, what’s up? I couldn’t find you earlier!” Pause. “Uh, sorry, you’re breaking up. Or maybe it’s me. Just gimme a sec, lemme try to find more bars…”

He ducks behind the bushes encircling the clearing, and they’re close enough that Tim can hear what’s being said, but the bushes are too thick and noisy for him to try using them for covert picture taking. He has to take out Stephanie’s selfie stick still tucked into his pocket to maneuver his phone through the bushes. He spends five minutes blindly taking pictures and discreetly bringing the phone back to see if it got anything, and then another five minutes adjusting his angle. Somehow he gets it done by the time a second person joins the party, and Tim feels some of the tension in his shoulders relax.

The meeting doesn’t last long, but it’s long enough for him to get the necessary pictures. Legends didn’t ask for any video, which is all the better because Tim didn’t bring an extra camera. Tim has told Legends, and proved in the past, the accuracy of his memory. Tim would normally offer evidence just in case, but as this time it’s impossible, he’ll just leave it to Legends whether or not to take him at his word.

Tim walks as quietly as he can away from the bushes before breaking into a sprint. His watch says that fifteen minutes have already passed. By the time he gets to the bottom of the hill, it’s seventeen. By the time he reaches the bathrooms, it’s eighteen, and he sees Stephanie sitting on the grass with a put out expression.

Guilt stabs him in the chest. “Steph!” he calls, and her head snaps up. “Jeez, you’re hard to find! I came out of the bathroom and you weren’t here and then I went to the cotton candy stand and you weren’t there… I’ve been looking for you forever!”

He _hates_ lying. He feels it crawl like a bug beneath his skin. Tim stumbles to a stop and shoots her an excited grin, even if he wants to do anything _but._ “I’m starving. Want to go get some real food?” When her only response is getting to her feet and slowly brushing off her pants, Tim tries to muster the most bewildered expression he’s capable of to his face. “What?” No answer. “Steph?”

She shakes her head. “It’s nothing. What do you want to eat?”

As she walks off towards the concession stands, there’s a rock in Tim’s gut that says he fucked things up all over again.

* * *

“Remember that what has once been done may be done again,” Robin says from behind Tim.

It’s a little creepy, maybe, but Tim knows Robin’s voice by now, and it’s not surprising to Tim that his idol would turn out to be one of the weirdest people in Gotham. Sneaking up behind someone on rooftops probably classifies as normal. Tim has decided to ignore Robin, except after the first few seconds his curiousity gets the better of him: “Is that a quote? It sounds familiar.”

“Yeah,” Robin says, but offers no elaboration. He joins Tim at the edge of the rooftop, if a little further back because he’s at a bigger risk if he’s seen.

Tim doesn’t know legal details very well. Commissioner Loeb was arrested that morning while Tim was still asleep, but whatever he was doing for the entire day that Tim was in Metropolis is a mystery. Now, however, it seems that he’s been ‘officially’ arrested, because there are reporters swarming the precinct as the man himself is led out in handcuffs. “I thought he was already in jail?” he says, more to himself than to Robin, but Robin answers anyway.

“He was just in a holding cell. Didn’t get immediately charged for whatever reason. Sorta sketchy if you ask me. But it’s whatever -- he’s being taken to the actual jail now.” Tim nods and resolves to learn more about police procedure after this.

They lapse into silence. Before Robin had approached, Tim had been basking in his own accomplishments, letting the satisfaction try and wash away the heavy feeling he still carried since parting ways with a dispirited Stephanie. Now, however, that heavy feeling is back, even if overshadowed by his irritation at the Boy Wonder’s presence. He watches Comm--no, _Gillian_ as he’s shoved into the back of the police cruiser by Officer O’Connor as Gordon stands on the steps of the building and begins addressing the crowd.

“He’s a natural leader,” Robin comments. They can hear only bits and pieces of Gordon’s speech from here. “Think he’s gonna make Commissioner?”

Tim doesn’t answer. He can hear Robin shuffle next to him, and see in his peripheral vision the way the boy starts fiddling with his cape. It’s almost cute. He stares down at the cape instead of trying to meet Tim’s eyes.

When Robin realises that Tim doesn’t intend on ever answering, he changes the subject. “Uh, so, I was thinking… And I realise now that I must have hurt your feelings the other night when I said I didn’t believe you. Well, I didn’t say that exactly, but I’ve been told that it must have come across that way and I really didn’t mean it like that. I mean, I meant that there’s probably a more likely explanation--” Robin stops and takes a deep breath. “Okay, what I’m trying to say is: I’m sorry.”

If there were crickets in the middle of Gotham, Tim reasons that he would probably be able to hear them chirping.

“Uh,” Robin begins, then stops, exhales, and turns to actually look at Tim’s face. Tim doesn’t look back at him. “I’m really, _really_ sorry?”

After a few more moments of dragged out silence, Tim examines his face. Robin is gnawing at his bottom lip, his eyebrows are furrowed and his fingers have adopted a death grip on the abused strip of fabric hanging around his waist. He opens his mouth, probably to stammer out another apology, when Tim nods. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Robin ventures, and he looks so nervous that Tim has to bite back the laugh that’s starting to bubble up. A laugh that surprises him -- he thought he was in a worse mood than that, but then again, staying in a bad mood seems to be harder around the Boy Wonder than he thought.

“Okay, I forgive you.” Robin jerks forward and for a weird second Tim thinks he’s going to hug him, but the boy settles instead for a wide grin. Tim tries not to smile back. “It’s hard to stay mad at you, anyway. But thanks for apologising. No one else has done that yet.”

“What do you mean?” Robin asks, moving to sit down with his back against the roof ledge. Tim kneels and twists a little to face him.

Tim tries to shrug dismissively. Like all of his other attempts at casual in life, it probably fails. “You’re not the first person I’ve told about my theory that there’s a kidnapping operation going on in Gotham that no one knows about. I’m almost _positive_ my best friend is part of it and I have to make sure he’s okay. But everyone else just like...rolls their eyes and thinks I’m being some over dramatic kid when I mention it. No one wants to even try and see if I’m right! If the police aren’t talking about it and the media isn’t talking about it, then it must not be there, right?” He grits his teeth and glares at the cement of the roof. “And no one is helping, but you’re _Robin,_ you’re supposed to help everyone and you just did the same thing as them and…”

When Tim starts to trail off, Robin scoots forward and finally embraces Tim in a hug. Tim is stiff and the angle is off, but once he shifts his legs around to the side then at least he doesn’t have to arch his back. He doesn’t tell Robin that he’s not the biggest fan of hugs and lets him have his moment. “I swear I didn’t mean that,” Robin says, letting go but staying close. “I want to help you -- I’m _going_ to help you find him. I promise.”

And finally, Tim feels the rock in his gut lessen in size like it’s slowly turning into air. He smiles shyly. “I know.” Robin cocks his head just a little and...Tim doesn’t know how he knows that’s a sign for him to go on. Somehow, from somewhere, he learned that it is and he continues without additional prompting.

“You’re Robin. You’re freaking _amazing._ You’re a legend and a myth and a hero all in one. If there’s anyone who can help me, it’s you. You can do anything.” From this close, Tim can see the red crawling up Robin’s cheeks. He can’t really be that modest, can he? “I mean, do you ever stop to really think about everything you’re doing? You’re beating up people twice your size while telling them jokes! That’s insane! Have you ever seen pictures of yourself? I don’t have any of _you_ specifically but just wearing that costume...You’re just--” Tim loses his momentum and feels himself start to stammer, so he finishes lamely: “--really cool.” He doesn’t say how much he wishes he could be just a little more like him.

Tim hadn’t been able to look at Robin’s face during the word vomit that fell out of his mouth, so he doesn’t notice Robin coming closer, and when he glances up again--

Well, he can’t say anything, because Robin’s lips are on his.

And his world _stops._

Tim doesn’t do anything at first, doesn’t budge an inch, and Robin’s hands have moved to his cheeks while Tim’s own hands hover suspended in the air. It’s when he hears a car door slam shut on the street below that he snaps back to himself and jerks away.

Robin moves back just as quickly. They stare at each other, and Robin’s face is entirely red now.

Tim assumes his face is in a similar predicament, but for a different reason, and he knows how wide his eyes must be. He scrambles to his feet. “I’m so sorry, I’m not--I don’t--” he freezes as he looks down at Robin, who hasn’t moved at all. “I don’t like you that way. I don’t-- I’m sorry. I...should probably go.” He’s backing up, and then all of a sudden Robin is on his feet and grabbing him by the arm. Tim squeaks in alarm, but all Robin does is turn to the side and pull him further onto the roof.

“You were about to fall off,” Robin explains quietly, but it doesn’t calm Tim’s nerves at all. Oddly enough, Robin moves his hand from Tim’s arm to trace the R symbol on his own chest. “I just thought…”

“No...I’m sorr--,” Tim stammers again, but Robin interrupts him.

“No, _I’m_ sorry. I should have...I don’t know. I assumed too much. It’s just, when we were--” it seems like Robin has more to add, but he clamps his mouth shut like he’s said too much and shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. I shouldn’t have done that.”

With the apology, Tim feels better. His anxiety is still there, but he doesn’t feel on the verge of a panic attack. Instead, it’s been replaced with a relentless tension now suspended in the air between them. “I didn’t mean to lead you on, if I did,” Tim says quietly. “But you’re not the person I like.” At least, who he _thinks_ he likes, now that he thinks about it, now that he imagines what it would feel like if Robin were someone else -- thoughts he wouldn’t have come up with on his own.

“I figured,” Robin says, somewhat self-deprecatingly. “But hey, we’re still...friends, right?”

Relief is a tangible thing. “Yeah. Duh. Of course,” he says, trying to smile. “You promised to help me like two minutes ago, remember? Not even the president can break his promises that fast.”

The joke startles a laugh out of Robin. “I swear I have a better rep than that,” Robin assures him.

“I’m counting on it,” Tim replies, but the air still makes him feel antsy. He turns awkwardly, gesturing vaguely to the fire escape at the edge of the roof. “It’s been a long day though, so I’m gonna head home.”

“Oh, right,” Robin says, not moving closer but raising a hand to hook around his own shoulder. “Sounds good.”

Tim pauses at the top of the fire escape when Robin doesn’t say anything else. He looks back at him. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?”

At the question, Robin’s head snaps up so fast that Tim worries for his neck, and his entire posture perks up like a child finally being allowed to eat their Halloween candy. “Totally!” he says quickly. “See ya later.”

“See ya,” Tim smiles, and climbs down the fire escape. When he gets to the bottom, he exhales as slowly as possible, running a hand down his face.

He’s still in shock. Robin, the Boy Wonder of Gotham, the legendary partner of the Batman himself likes… Tim. Romantically. Tim doesn’t think _anyone_ has ever liked him like _that._ Especially not a… _boy_. It’s a lot to wrap his head around. He’s not sure how he feels about it.

He had no idea that Robin was gay.

Tim thinks back to his own revelations in the last few minutes and wonders to himself: Is _he_ gay, too?

But the thought makes his heart race, and he’s had enough anxiety for one day. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore. Instead, Tim continues walking and tries to put his mind on anything but what has just happened, about the feeling of someone else’s lips on his, and the _what-ifs_ surrounding it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer for never having been to Delaware! In this story, as it is implied in most canon, Gotham is in some magical place that is somehow surrounded by water at the tip of New Jersey, and Metropolis is just across the water in Delaware. From pictures, I’ve seen that Delaware is abundantly green, with many forests, and there happens to be a patch by the water that has a low population density. I put Metropolis somewhere there, near to where Lewes is. The low population density probably means forests, but Delaware also has some pretty hills, so in my imagination Metropolis is a bustling metropolitan area flanked on one side by a harbor and on the opposite side, rolling hills that give way to dense greenery, located somewhere north west of Lewes.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this on a Mac laptop, and I would like to tell everyone with heartfelt sincerity that the only reason for the existence of Macs is to make everyone's life harder. It took unreasonably long to copy and paste 13 pages of text.
> 
> On that note, I won't have any more time to write for a week, so enjoy an 8k update in apology!
> 
> P.S. I didn't know what to do about the words 'mother' and 'father'. Fun fact about me: My least favorite word is 'mom'. I hate it with a burning passion. I'm not sure why. I don't care when other people say it, it's when I say it that I shudder in disgust. It's similar to how most people feel about the word 'moist'. I have always and will always call my mother 'mother' when talking to others and 'mama' when talking to her. Yet, I call my father 'dad'. To make things consistent, I type mother and father in stories. It sounds normal to me, but I had this weird moment while writing this where I started obsessing over whether or not people who didn't often use those words would find the flow interrupted. In any case, for some reason people always get upset or angry at me when I refer to my mother as 'mother' because they believe I'm being rude or disrespecting her, so just as a precaution, I promise that that's not the tone of voice being used here. It's not meant to be formal, disrespectful, overly proper, or whatever. It's just a word. Hopefully it doesn't read weirdly to anyone.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy chapter 19!

When the fourth door slams in Tim’s face, he walks to the edge of the flaking porch and sits heavily on the steps. He stares at the overheating asphalt of the sidewalk with the absent fascination signature to those with nothing better to do. After a moment or two, he takes the folded list he printed from the file Gordon sent his burner email and crosses out the fourth name down with his pen.

Tim can’t decide if Gordon cheated him or just didn’t know to specify. Likely the latter option, considering Tim hadn’t given any perimeters and Gordon doesn’t seem like the type to give anyone _extra_ information just to make their life a little more inconvenient.

Tim has been walking between houses for an hour now -- luckily, they all seem to be nearby for the time being -- to collect stories, clues, _anything_ about the missing people on his list, only to find out one important, hindering factor:

They’re not missing.

Not anymore. Runaways, children lost at the mall… they’re all temporary cases that have already been solved. Tim spares a thought of curiousity for what Gordon thinks Tim must be doing with such a list, since he likely knew that half of the list has already been taken care of. _A warning would have been nice._

But no, it isn’t Gordon’s fault. Tim shouldn’t be blaming him. He scans the list again, reads every name as carefully as he can (as if somehow, he’ll find Jay’s name -- but he knows he won’t, because Jay has no one, nothing, not anymore, not a person who cares enough to _notice_ except Tim). He rises from his perch and begins the trek back to his own district.

While Tim has learned exactly how to fit in with the poorer neighbourhoods, courtesy of all the time he spent around Jay, one of the most important lessons he learned in those years is that Gothamites are terribly territorial. Tim has never been able to decide if it’s just his own paranoia that makes him feel like everyone’s eyes are always on him, if they are and that’s normal, or if they are and he’s been spotted -- found out, like a rat. He _doesn’t belong_ and sometimes Tim feels like the mark has been branded on his skin no matter how hard he tries to wash it off, how hard he tries to disappear into his surroundings like nothing more than a shadow.

It’s odd that Tim feels this way, because it’s a good thing that he doesn’t belong. These streets are not a place Tim wants to waste his time in, and Jay would attest to that. In fact, Jay would probably say the same thing Tim is, that the sign of a street rat has seeped into Jay’s very bones and no amount of soap or _bleach_ could erase it, scrub away all that rust. Tim walks down the street and is as consciously aware as he could be that this isn’t Park Row, this isn’t the East Side. He wonders whether people around here see the piece of East Side Jay’s shoved into him before the rest of him, or the other way around.

Tim contemplates it even as he crosses over to the better end of the West Side, which transitions into the glass towers and bold signs desperate to hook attention signature to the Diamond District. He waves to Ryan on his way through the hotel lobby, but while the man waves back, he’s too occupied with checking in an elderly couple to engage him in small talk. It’s only noon and Tim feels weird to be back at the hotel so early when there still feels like there’s a world of things to get done. There’s nothing for it now, though. He’s stuck.

Tim had only picked the first missing cases from the month of February to look at. He reasoned that’s not so long that the family has forgotten everything and not so soon that he can’t tell whether or not the cases are related. He can’t start from the beginning because the fact of the matter is, the file Gordon sent contained, as requested, _every single missing person’s report in the last year._

And there’s over 11,000.

When Tim first opened the file, it took a full five minutes for it to load completely, and scrolling through too fast still caused it to glitch a little. He knew there had to be a lot, but seeing the actual number made something sick crawl in his stomach. Numbers themselves are just numbers, and the bigger they are the harder they are to comprehend. But Tim wasn’t just looking at numbers. He was looking at _names._ Over 11,000 names.

It made him hesitant to leave the house for the rest of the day. He feels a little better now that he knows most of them are solved. In fact, the third house he was at didn’t even remember what he was talking about -- as it turned out, they had found their daughter an hour after the report because she had just been at a friend’s house the entire time. But not all of the cases are that way, and the thought rises goosebumps along his arms.

Tim doesn’t pay attention to his surroundings as he walks through the living room, expecting it all to be as it normally is, which is why he jumps nearly out of his skin when he hears, “Where have you been?”

It’s not scolding, more curious than anything. Tim stares at his father lounging on the couch. The TV is on mute, which is why he hadn’t heard it immediately, and the head of the household is scrolling through his Facebook feed on his phone. “Dad!" Tim exclaims, willing his pulse to calm the hell down. “I didn’t know you were home.”

His father nods. “Just got in about an hour ago. We thought you were still sleeping and didn’t want to bother you,” he says with a frown.

“Oh,” Tim replies dumbly. “I was just...at the gas station.” He raises the energy drink that he had picked up on his way back. “You could have checked my room,” he points out. His father looks happier now with an explanation and cracks a smile, like Tim had said something funny.

“I haven’t known you to wake up before noon if you could help it,” he jokes.

Tim never sleeps in past ten during the summer. The heat of midday makes him feel gross when he does get up, and sleeping too long makes him groggy. “Oh. Thanks, I guess.”

“Sure, kiddo. Your mom’s out buying groceries. She should be back soon.”

“Cool,” Tim says. When his father doesn’t say anything else, Tim continues on his way.

When he gets to his room, he can hear the low murmur of the television being un-muted. He holds the door, ready to shut it, but the white noise is oddly calming and the house doesn’t feel so quiet now. He keeps his door open a crack and slumps into his desk chair.

There’s no way Tim can get through every name on his list. That’s a fact. He already knows that, it’s why he’s decided just to look at the month of February for now. Except that’s still a pool of a little over 800 reports to sift through. He doesn’t even know what to do with a number like that.

He glares at his list. It’s only a record of the first _day_ of February. A list of 35 names and addresses. He resists the urge to crumble it and picks up his phone.

As it turns out, the people of Gotham are less than helpful (not surprising). They’re immediately suspicious when Tim calls to ask about their missing person’s report after so long, and they know he’s not with the police when the case has already been solved. After the sixth person asks Tim’s age, he starts pretending he’s a woman. At the end, he finds out that every single case from the first day of February has already been closed.

Tim bangs his head against his table.

He’s on day three when he finds a pattern. He logs into his computer and copies the entire list from February onto a word document, then goes through and enters a Find and Search for every address from the first two days, the ones he knows already told him they have no one missing, and watches as 22 items on his list disappear.

The new bane of his existence: Overprotective, paranoid parents.

Tim doesn’t know how much time passes after that, only that one moment he’s cursing the name of Eleanor Jarold and how many times she can possibly get herself lost with her phone dead, and the next moment there’s a rap on his door that’s waking him from a nap. “Tim, dinner’s ready,” comes his mother’s voice.

“What is it?” he asks immediately.

“Your favourite,” she answers vaguely. Tim frowns. _He_ doesn’t even know what his favourite food is, how could his mother?

As Tim soon finds out, it’s apparently spaghetti and meatballs. He probably ate it a ton when he was little. He doesn’t say anything to correct his mother’s assumptions, though, because the food is warm and _fresh_ and not from a can, and he gets to eat it on the couch over the low background hum of a baseball game while his father recounts their adventures from South America.

“I understand how saying the same things over and over again could get repetitive, really, I do. But we would have been better off _without_ that tour guide for all the droning he did, like he didn’t get to stand in front of _Uxmal_ every day. God, it was a beauty. You have photos on your phone, don’t you, Janet? Show Tim. Wow…”

Tim’s mother is a tall, elegant woman, who lets her hair down when she’s being professional and puts it up when she’s casual, something Tim hasn’t seen any other girl do. The mousy brown strands are wrapped up in a messy bun now and she’s sipping at a glass of wine (Tim has had a sip before -- it’s terrible and now it’s like he can taste it in the back of his mouth every time he watches her tip the glass back). Her legs are crossed and she’s leaning against the corner of the couch. She waves her glass every time she emphasises a word. Somehow, she doesn’t spill a drop, and Tim wonders if he’ll ever achieve that level of coordination. “But that was the least of it, honey. Across the way from the Uxmal itself was this structure, set up like one row of the Colosseum, maybe, with little doorways at specific intervals. Pitch black in those, let me tell you. While your dad was off taking more pictures than I can count of the same sight over and over, I wandered in and met with this _odd_ man, and what would you figure…” she begins, stealing the spotlight from his father.

For an hour, Tim forgets about his list.

But that hour is bathed in fantasy, a surreal event Tim has only seen in movies and read in books, and totally unrelated to the rest of his life. A moment suspended as an island from the moments surrounding, protected by an empty moat that lacks a bridge or an explanation as to why no one builds one.

When Tim returns upstairs and to his list, he feels his life crash back down on him like a meteor shower -- not all at once, but in waves, reminding him chunk by chunk of the world around him. Out of the 748 people reported missing in February after Tim removed repeated calls, Tim had managed to call 336 of them before dinner and actually make contact with 278. It feels like hardly a _dent_ in the massive number on his list, but it’s something.

He doesn’t know whether he feels like laughing from relief or crying from frustration when he looks to the left and reads his handwritten list of everyone still missing.

Thirty-three people, all before February 16th, with gaps from the calls that went unanswered.

It’s a start.

Tim pulls his billboard out from under his bed and realises belatedly that he’s missing a very important piece to his collection. There’s a large part of him that just wants to give in, jump into bed and do nothing more strenuous than try to beat his highest score on Angry Birds. Better yet, he longs to walk back downstairs, sit between his parents on the couch and listen to his father mutter about the baseball scores on TV. In the end, he does walk downstairs, but he doesn’t stick around. He slows his walking pace when he passes the couch in order to read the screen, but he only stops at the elevator. His mother looks up from her own spot on the couch. The window open on her laptop displays the Amazon homepage. “Where are you off to?”

Tim freezes. He’s...never really had to explain himself before, so he doesn’t have an excuse prepared. He decides to tell the truth. “Office Depot.”

His mother’s eyes narrow. “What? That’s at least half a mile away.”

“Yeah…,” Tim confirms hesitantly, because he doesn’t understand why she’s upset. His father looks up.

“Who’s taking you?” he asks.

“I can just walk,” replies Tim.

“ _Walk?_ No,” his mother says firmly. “It’s getting dark and that’s too far of a walk. You can go in the morning.”

“It’s just half of a mile,” he insists, more confused than ever. “I can run that in six minutes. And it’s not going to be dark for another three hours.”

“I can drive you,” his father suggests.

“Uh, no, really. It’s fine. I can walk. I like walking.”

“Why would you want to? Just wait until the game is over and I have a perfectly good car downstairs.”

“I walk all the time. It’s okay.”

“What?” his mother barks, looking like Tim had done a heinous crime. He bristles defensively. “Where do you walk to?” she demands.

“My friend’s houses?” he says, making it into a question when it’s not because he doesn’t understand his mother’s change in demeanor.

“What friends?” his father asks.

“Where do they live?” his mother asks.

Tim doesn’t have time to answer either of those questions because his father speaks up again. “Janet, if he’s really that determined to walk there, I think we should let him.”

They stare at each other for what feels like eternity to Tim before his mother turns to him. “You _run_ there, you stick to the main streets, you _text_ me when you get there and you text me when you’re on your way back. Understand?”

“But it’s just--”

“Do you understand?”

“Yeah…,” Tim responds. She nods, satisfied, and both of them watch Tim as he gets into the elevator.

He doesn’t get the big deal. He does this all the time -- what else do they expect him to do? He wonders for the first time what his parents believe he’s up to when they’re on their trips or at work. Do they expect him to stay home and play video games all day?

With something that feels like an epiphany, Tim realises that yeah, they probably do. But while Tim loves video games, they bore him relatively fast. He doesn’t like to sit still for that long and he can’t drive. He also doesn’t trust people enough to get into a car with a driver he doesn’t know, especially since he’s started investigating kidnappings. What do his parents expect him to do? Fly to wherever he wants to go? He has two legs for a reason.

When he gets back home, his mother is clearly unhappy. She’s still on the couch, still on her laptop, but the TV is off and his father is nowhere in sight. She glances pointedly at the clock. “You’ve been gone for 45 minutes,” she says.

Tim didn’t think it’d been that long. But he didn’t really feel like running the entire way, and finding what he needed was difficult. The nearest Office Depot at the very edge of the Upper West Side is like a never-ending labyrinth that simultaneously has everything and never anything Tim needs. It took Tim a good ten minutes to find what he was looking for. “It’s a big place…,” he trails off, not sure what he should be making an excuse for.

“I know that. Why didn’t you text me?” she questions.

He puts an appropriately panicked expression on. “I’m sorry, I forgot. I’m not really used to that. I promise I’ll remember next time. I’ll even put a reminder in my phone.”

But of course that’s not what his mother hears. “You mean you never tell anyone where you’re going when you leave?” she demands, sharper than before, and Tim doesn’t know what to do. There’s never anyone around for him to report back to.

“Uh…”

“Tim! Do you realise how _dangerous_ it is out there? This is Gotham! Haven’t you heard enough about the freaks in the streets?” She pushes her laptop aside in order to a cross one arm and fold the other to cover the lower half of her face.

“I’m sorry,” he says meekly.

She gets off the couch and properly crosses both arms. Tim figures she does it just so she can look down at him. “Sorry doesn’t cut it. You should have told me about this sooner! From now on, your dad and I are driving you everywhere. Got it?” Tim nods quickly, he just wants to get back upstairs as soon as possible, but when he starts to scurry away he finds a hole in that plan.

“But what about when you’re at work?”

She narrows her eyes. “Then you don’t leave the house.”

Tim forces himself to breathe calmly. “What about when you’re on trips?”

“I’ll hire a driver. Now go to your room.”

Tim obeys. He resolutely does not think about the conversation that had just transpired the whole way up, and he doesn’t even look at his father when they bump into each other in the hall. “Welcome back. What’d you get?” the man asks as Tim makes it to his room.

He pulls from the first thing to pop into his mind. “Some paper for drawing,” is his response as he shuts the door.

He locks it and falls onto his bed.

Tim thinks about his mother’s rules and he feels an ire rise in his chest that he attempts to repress because anger is his least favourite emotion. It leaves unwanted restlessness in his limbs. He almost never gets angry, so when he does, he has no idea how to deal with it. He wishes his mother didn’t make those new rules, but the more Tim sits on it, the more he knows that it doesn’t matter.

There’s no way in hell that he’ll waste an entire day for his mother to come home, and then throw away all the time at night that he could be using for furthering his investigation. Not to mention the fact that she would never let him go anywhere seedy. It just means he’ll have to be sneakier. Lie more. Get _better_ at lying.

Tim hates lying. Yet, the longer he spends around his parents, the more it feels like most of everything he tells them is a lie. He eyes the bag on his bed. He couldn’t even tell the truth about what he bought. It’s nothing _bad,_ but he was too afraid of needing to answer questions. Lying was...easier.

Tim takes the enlarged, laminated map of Gotham out of his bag (he finds it funny that Office Depot actually had one) and rolls it out, holding the corners down with books. He takes out the stickers he also bought and begins methodically placing them at every address of every missing person on his new list.

Tim hates lying, but he’ll do it anyway. It’s okay. He knows he’s not doing anything bad, so it shouldn’t matter. Right?

* * *

Tim breaks his mother’s new rule an hour after he wakes up.

“Hi, my name is Tim,” Tim greets the stately middle-aged Hispanic woman who opens the apartment door in front of him, deep in the east corner of Burnley. “I called you yesterday about the missing person’s report you called in a few months ago. I’m doing a summer project about the crime rates in Gotham, specifically missing persons and the manner in which they most commonly go missing, and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about your son?”

She stares at him for long enough that Tim thinks she’s going to shut the door in his face, but then she opens it fully and lets him pass. “How old are you?” she says with a thick accent.

From what Jay has told him, this neighbourhood, including the part that bleeds into the Bowery, is majority Latino. When Tim had come here with Jay, not only had Tim discovered that his best friend could speak Spanish like a champ, but also that the people in this community don’t speak English all that often. Why would they need to? Everyone around them speaks Spanish, after all. It makes Tim feel awkward, being the only one in the immediate vicinity who can’t understand what’s being said around him.

Tim knows some Hebrew from the Saturday school his mother used to make him go to. He wasn’t really into it, though, and got out of it at every opportunity he could. He’s starting to regret that now. At least if he knew Hebrew then he wouldn’t be the only monolingual person for miles.

“Thirteen,” Tim says and gingerly steps inside. It’s a small place, but he wasn’t expecting a mansion. There’s no front hall. The door immediately opens into a living room with an adjacent small kitchen area. It’s clean, but not orderly in the way that his penthouse is. The apartment looks properly lived in, with pictures peppering the walls and a various assortment of colourful rugs dotting the ground. A wooden cross with a pinned figure of Jesus is suspended on the wall across from the door. There’s a pile of laundry on a chair propped in front of the couch with a full hamper beside it, and a girl who can’t be much older than Tim drying dishes from the clean stack next to the sink.

“My daughter is thirteen,” the woman notes, and the girl at the sink turns around curiously. She looks him up and down, nods in greeting, then goes back to her dishes. “How did you know about my son?” she asks, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch as she moves the laundry to the kitchen.

“My uncle is a cop,” Tim explains as he sits down and takes out his notepad. “He was the one assigned to your case. I remembered him coming home once and telling me about it. He was really stumped, so I thought this was a good place to start with my project.” He hesitates. “That is, if you’re okay with it, Mrs. Corona?”

The woman’s demeanor seems to relax the more nervous Tim looks. “Yes, yes,” she tells him as she bustles into the kitchen and brings back a tray of cookies. “Write about my son,” Mrs. Corona says as she sits down. “Remind the police of him.”

Tim smiles softly. “That’s exactly what I plan to do.”

Mrs. Corona’s youngest son, Sebastian, 9, suffered from cystic fibrosis. He would take a walk to the nearest pharmacy, a mile down the street, every month for his medication because the family doesn’t have a car. Normally his eldest sister would go with him, but that time she was stuck at school tutoring a friend and Sebastian must have decided to go by himself. Tim finds the ‘must’ interesting, because as it so happens, Mrs. Corona was at work and didn’t actually know why he left the house. She has four children apart from her eldest daughter and Sebastian who were all out of the house at the time. Apparently it’s only a three bedroom apartment and the kids are so crowded together all the time that they hate actually being indoors. Sebastian is often the only one stuck home because he randomly gets sick to the point of being unable to breathe the air outside.

It’s interesting, but the interview is completely unhelpful. It does, however, explain why Mrs. Corona didn’t once harass Tim for questions on what the police were doing with the investigation. Neither of them said it, but Tim is certain that the woman already knows Sebastian is dead. With an illness like his, depending on how soon his next episode was, it’s unlikely he survived even a week.

Needless to say, Tim walks out of that house feeling increasingly depressed.

The next house he visits is closer to Newtown, and it’s the polar opposite of the one he just left. Cigarette smoke fogs the air inside the apartment and the lights are perpetually dimmed, the curtains pulled. Playing cards litter the round wooden table, there’s broken glass in the sink, and Tim doesn’t feel safe. He sticks it out, though, long enough to learn from the 18 year old daughter, her father nowhere to be found, that one day she came home from school to find her mother gone. She reported it as missing person because not a single possession had been taken or moved. One moment her mother was there, the next she was gone. Further questioning revealed that her mother may have been sleeping with a man down the street.

The next house Tim visits is down the street, where he listens to a distressed woman alternate between cursing her missing husband or begging Tim to find him. It’s fruitless to remind the woman that Tim isn’t actually a cop. He crosses out the notes he took at the second house once he leaves the third.

Tim’s next destination is back on the West Side, close enough to Finger River that Tim can look over the water and see Brubaker Mall. It’s a house, worn down with porch steps that don’t feel stable and an old woman who looks like she’s wasting away. Her son, a man in his middle ages, greets Tim.

The place smells like a retirement home, but at least it’s better than cigarette smoke. There are odd trinkets all over the place, so many that Tim is having a hard time taking them in -- a white crocheted tablecloth covered in the pieces of a disassembled sewing machine, a jade statue of an elephant with a place among plastic sculpted running statues of a dozen different horses, a different hand made throw pillow covering every inch of the couch cushions (to the point that Tim doesn’t think anyone can actually sit down) that don’t have a single theme in common with each other, and he stubs his toe on a rocking chair in the middle of the hall as he follows the man further into the house. He leads Tim into a bedroom that Tim accurately assumes to be the old woman’s and takes an album out from the top bedside drawer that has nothing on it but a dusty lamp and a Bible. He shows Tim a picture of his sister.

“She used to be the one to take care of ma,” he tells him, sitting on the bed and staring down at the photo. “I had to fly in from Michigan after she disappeared. Quit my job and everything. Luckily there’s no shortage in Gotham with how many people either die or leave the city -- I still can’t believe I agreed to move _into_ this city instead of _out.”_ He shakes his head and sighs. “I know ma misses her, even if she refuses to talk about it. Although sometimes she forgets Julie is missing and just asks me when she’s going to be back. Sometimes she even asks me when I got to Gotham, or tells me to call Julie and make sure she’s making her appointments. Your uncle ever tell you how many people actually get found in his city after they disappear?”

“Not many,” Tim answers, and it’s the truth.

“Yeah, I figured.”

It’s not the last time Tim has to tell that particular nasty truth. The next person to ask it lives a few blocks down, in a small studio apartment that lacks most furniture one would expect in a living space. There are two air mattresses in the middle of the room with an old fatback TV planted in front of them and dirty dishes scattered around the only one that has blankets on it. The college-aged girl living there, as it turns out, had to sell all of her furniture to afford rent. She can’t find another roommate since her last one went missing because she lives too far from the Gotham U campus, but she gives Tim a lot of information on the best way to roommate hunt. She’s holding out for the start of the fall quarter, when she’s certain she’ll be getting some offers from college kids who forgot to find a place to live before everything got snatched up. She isn’t in college herself, but her roommate was. Stacy is her name.

Stacy offers Tim a seat on her missing roommate’s air mattress and offers him a glass of water and cold pizza. She’s the least intimidating person in the least intimidating place Tim has visited yet, probably because she looks as nervous as him -- she never gets visitors -- so he accepts the offer. The pizza is decent. He munches on it as Stacy tells him what happened.

“She told me she was going to her boyfriend’s house. He lives closer to the park, where the apartments are a little nicer. They were thinking about moving in together. Mark’s his name. So, she wanted to move in with him and she was going on and on about it and I was asking her to stay until I found another roommate, you know? I mean, this place is cheap as all hell compared to some of those places on the market now, but the whole transit station is just down the street. I need that to get to work, but it makes things a little more expensive. It’s already a nice place. You can’t see it, since I never have time to clean...or money to buy anything…

“Right, as I was saying. So we got into an argument. She wanted to move _right away_ but god, I was so scared I was going to get thrown on the streets. And then she just stormed out. Police asked around, said that the neighbour-lady on the first floor heard her yelling on the phone. I found out later that Mark broke up with her right after. I mean, talk about bad timing, right? And then she was just gone.” Stacy bends over then to place her head in his hands. “God, I just… I feel like it’s _my_ fault _._ If I hadn’t been so scared… I was being unreasonable. I mean, look at me now. I’m not on the streets, right? So everything would’a been okay. We never had to fight…”

Theoretically, Tim knew that spending hours investigating kidnappings would bring him down, but he doesn’t really _get it_ until he’s being yelled at in front of the house that he’s decided is the last one he’s checking out for the day. The woman yelling at him is different from the girl who picked up the phone the other day. This woman is the mother of the household and the moment Tim asks about her missing seventeen year old, she’s ripping him a new one. Tim doesn’t actually know what she’s so angry about. She’s ranting about her life more than anything specific, but she might just be yelling because she’s so upset that she doesn’t know what else to do. She dissolves into tears not long after Tim decides to just book it. He’s forlornly kicking an empty soda can down the street when he hears someone shout at him from behind.

Tim turns around to see a broad-shouldered man in basketball shorts stalking up to him. “What the fuck is your problem?” he yells. “Do fuckers like you get some sick satisfaction out of harassing women?” He’s tall and muscular with a young enough face to be placed as a freshman-in-college, and he looks _pissed._

Tim takes one look at him and runs.

There’s a weird nostalgia in running from a tall guy in a beaten down neighbourhood, where the people on the street just stare with fleeting curiousity at the sight of a small kid running for his life. Tim is reminded of Jay.

The thought would make him laugh, if he weren’t so terrified.

Because Tim’s life is a cliche, he ends up running for a schoolyard up ahead, except he overestimates his climbing abilities when he jumps at the fence. He also underestimates how much the guy had managed to catch up, because it feels like only seconds before Tim is being flung off the fence by the back of his t-shirt. He hits the pavement with a groan and then he’s being picked up again, this time by the front. A fist is being waved in his face and the guy is yelling something, but Tim is too preoccupied with watching the spittle flying from his lips to pay attention to the actual words being said.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it’s over. Tim is dropped back on the ground and this time, he’s not the one groaning. Soon enough, he’s not the only one on the pavement either. He stares at the man knocked out beside him.

“Are you okay?” comes a familiar voice, and Tim glances up to see Robin holding out a hand.

“What the hell,” he deadpans, staring at the hand like he’s trying to figure out if it’s _really_ a hand. Robin grabs his arm and pulls him up when Tim stares too long. “What are you, a magician?”

Robin grins, curly hair a windswept mess. “Something like that.” But just as soon as the grin comes, it drops. He must remember the circumstances and their location, because he starts hustling Tim into a conveniently placed alley. “Are you crazy?” he exclaims. “That guy could have killed you!”

Tim considers that. “Would he really have, though?”

“Yes!”

“Sheesh,” he mutters. _“Someone_ needs a shrink.”

“This isn’t a joke,” Robin says with a glare. Well, Tim thinks he’s glaring, anyway.

“Everything’s a joke if you’re depraved enough,” Tim points out.

Robin huffs and gestures to his costume. “Yeah, I figured that out already.”

Oh. Ouch. Tim feels bad now.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Robin says.

“Why not?” Tim replies defensively. He backs away from Robin, who’s still holding onto his arm like he’s one second away from trying to shake some sense into Tim.

Robin points towards the mouth of the alley. “You nearly got yourself landed in a hospital out there!” he exclaims. “These aren’t your streets.”

On the contrary, these streets are more familiar to Tim than any of the others he’s visited today. They’re in the heart of the Bowery and Tim has every street _memorised._ “Aren’t you supposed to be stopping a mugger somewhere?” he quips, and then immediately remembers an important detail. “Wait. What are _you_ doing here?”

Robin tenses. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t play dumb,” says Tim, pointing to the sky. “It’s daytime. Like, high noon daytime. You only patrol at night.”

“It’s actually almost two,” Robin replies. It’s Tim’s turn to cross his arms and act like the disapproving parent (he knows better than ever how to mimic _that_ particular look now). “I don’t have to answer to you, you know.”

Tim knows. The most fascinating part of the dynamic duo, after all, is the enigma of them. If Robin answered every question asked of him, there wouldn’t be a mystery. Still, Tim knows it’s going to eat at him. He sighs and uncrosses his arms. “Yeah, I know.” That doesn’t mean he’s going to drop it. He’ll just inconspicuously bring it up later.

Robin looks smug, the bastard. “So, roof?”

They end up on the roof. It’s easier to talk up here without being interrupted -- besides, Tim can never shake the feeling of being watched while he’s on the ground, no matter where he is. He wishes that he could travel only by rooftop, like Batman and Robin do. It’s just the top of a small barber shop, but the Bowery doesn’t have any tall buildings so it’s good enough to hide the two of them from wandering eyes.

“I’m not just in the neighbourhood for kicks,” Tim says after they’ve exchanged small talk. Things are relatively normal, even after the other night’s...incident. Even so, Tim can tell that Robin’s fidgeting has definitely increased, and they’re both consciously aware of any body contact, to the point that they’re sitting very carefully apart so as to not accidentally bump into each other. Tim thinks that Robin is acting way more paranoid about it than Tim is, though. “I was following a lead. Tried to interview a woman, but she was a little...unhelpful.”

“I know,” Robin states. Tim snaps to attention.

“Excuse me?”

“I saw it. Uh, saw you go to a few other houses, too,” he says, his cheeks burning.

“A few-- how long were you stalking me?”

Robin shrugs sheepishly. It doesn’t make much sense, since there’s nothing that Robin should be shrugging at. “Just since you got off the bus in Newtown.”

Tim contemplates that. “So that’s what that feels like,” he mutters to himself.

  
“What?” Robin asks. Tim shakes his head.

“Nothing. So, you just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

“Yup.”

“Thought Batman and Robin didn’t come to these parts.”

And there it is, the biggest mystery nagging at Tim everytime he passes through. He never found the answer to the clue he stumbled upon those years ago, when he first met the boy that quickly became one of the most important people in his life. He feels like it’s _significant,_ like if he could just figure out _why_ then everything will unravel. It’s the oddest thing he has yet to hear about the dynamic duo, and yet there’s nothing to explain it. Robin smirks, like something is ironic. “Batman doesn’t _like_ coming to these parts. And I...well, I don’t have the same issues. This place needs the most help, after all. Even if no one wants it.”

“What makes you think no one here wants help?”

“Oh, they do. Just not from costumed freaks. We’re more trouble than it’s worth. As long as they keep their heads down, go about their day with no new variable to fuck it up… They’ll settle for what they have,” Robin elaborates.

Tim examines Robin, and wishes not for the first time that he could see his eyes. He imagines there would be a pensive look on his face. Tim never took Robin for the ruminating type, but then again, he never really thought about it before. “You know an awful lot about these people.”

“I have to,” Robin says simply.

Tim has no answer to that, not one that wouldn’t dissolve into an interrogation. He decides instead to finally, _finally_ ask the question that’s been bugging him for over two years. “Why doesn’t Batman come to the Bowery?”

“He’s fine with the Bowery. He only avoids Crime Alley.”

Tim frowns. “But… That’s where he’s needed _most._ If he avoids it, and the cops avoid it, who doesn’t?”

“No, it’s not like that. He doesn’t patrol there. He’ll go there to hunt a criminal down, or to follow a case, or sometimes when a night is slow. But he won’t go there every night. He can’t. It’s…” Robin trails off, clearly trying to find the right word. He eventually decides not to try, and simply leave the sentence hanging in the air for the gaps to be filled by Tim’s overactive imagination.

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Maybe.”

They don’t speak for a while after that. There’s not much of a view to occupy Tim’s attention, though. They’re facing away from the edge of the roof, so Tim only sees the sight of the tops of houses in grey rows until eventually they’re obscured by an equally grey apartment complex.

Finally, Robin speaks: “Moral wounds have this peculiarity -- they may be hidden, but they never close; always painful, always ready to bleed when touched, they remain fresh and open in the heart.”

“Another quote?” Tim asks quietly. It’s familiar. “It’s beautiful.”

Robin nods. He opens his mouth to say something, but he must croak, because he closes it again without another word.

* * *

Tim realises the time not long after. He isn’t sure when his mother gets off work, can’t remember whether it’s 3pm or 5pm, but he wants to play it safe and leave early, just in case. This time, Robin actually tells him that he’ll trail Tim until he gets on the bus. It’s still an odd sight to see Robin bounding across rooftops in broad daylight, but he doesn’t comment on it. He assumes Robin knows what he’s doing.

The bus gets to the top of the street by the time Tim is all the way at the end. He starts running toward it and manages to make it to the doors before they close, but he accidentally shoves into a man walking out and knocks a stack of papers out of his hands. Tim bends down to help, but before he can so much as properly look at the papers, his sight is being blocked by the man haphazardly shoving them all into his hands. “Watch where you’re going, boy,” he scolds, and Tim looks up into the face of a bald man with large circular glasses and a trimmed beard lining his jaw.

“Uh, I’m really sorry, mister,” Tim apologises.

“Are you getting on or not?” the bus driver growls, and Tim starts backing up the stairs of the bus. The man he bumped into isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s walked out to sit on the bus bench and organise the multitude of papers in his lap. The doors are just starting to close when Tim recalls the name that he’s been trying to place to the face of the man. He only remembers it because of how odd the name was, and how it stood out in his memories when he was reorganising the photos in his camera the other day. “Mr. Strange?” he calls, and watches as the man looks up from his bench and stares at Tim suspiciously.

The bus starts moving before he gets to his seat. Mr. Strange continues to watch him through the windows.

“Find a seat,” the driver barks, and Tim turns to do just that when he spots a flash of white sitting on the ground at the top of the stairs. It’s one of the pieces of paper that fell out of Strange’s hands. He picks it up on his way to an empty seat.

_“NEW! Alternative medicine, tested and approved by Dr. Hugo Strange. Join the clinical trial that’s carving a path through the scientific world…”_

If Bill Nye has taught Tim anything, then it’s that this flyer is probably the shadiest thing he’s seen all day. He carefully folds the paper and tucks it into his pocket.

Two stops later, he recognises the street and, in a fit of impulsiveness, jumps off the bus as the doors start to close. He double checks the first address on his notepad, and knocks on the door of one Mrs. Corona for the second time that day.

She’s pleasantly surprised to see him. His first visit had been longer than the others, since it was before Tim realised how little time he can actually spend at each location if he wants to make any progress at all. At the very least, this visit was the most pleasant, and by the end of it Tim had ended up helping her fold laundry, which lead the woman into inviting Tim over whenever he wanted. Apparently she doesn’t get much company from her kids, no matter how many she has. Also, Tim has a feeling that she was trying to set him up with her daughter. “Hi, senora,” Tim greets sheepishly. “Sorry to bother you again, but I forgot to ask if this man has ever come to your door?”

He holds up the flyer, which has a professional photo of Hugo Strange in the bottom corner. Mrs. Corona nods enthusiastically. “Oh, yes, yes. He came by a long time ago, but I do remember him. Weird beard. Weirder name.”

“Do you remember why he came?”

She gestures to the headliner. “He wanted to help Sebastian. Told us that his medicine was less money. That he could cure him forever.” She shakes her head. “I have been in this country long time, Timothy. I am not so stupid. Men like him will do anything to get hands on money.”

After she’s closed her door and Tim has walked outside of the rundown apartment building, he startles to see a familiar figure leaning against the corner of the building. “Are you trying to lose me?” Robin says with an unimpressed look. “If so, you’re going to have to try harder than moving two blocks away.”

“I didn’t plan on it,” Tim says, and shows Robin the flyer. “Do you find this suspicious at all?”

Robin examines the flyer. “Well, just from watching Bill Nye’s--”

“Yeah, I know,” interrupts Tim, taking the flyer back. “I found this right after I got on the bus. It reminds me of something Jay told me a long time ago… He said that this guy was knocking on doors, trying to convince people that he could cure their sick or something. I just find it weird that the only two people I’ve heard about him from have both had sick family members, both had declined his offer, and now both are missing. One being the sick family member, the other being the one who had declined.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Robin points out.

“I don’t know…,” Tim trails off skeptically. “I don’t really believe in coincidences.”

Robin barks a laugh. When Tim cocks his head at him, he smirks. “You sound like Batman.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment,” Tim says.

“Uh-huh. Whatever floats your boat.”

“I just need to start asking people about him and see if things start to match up. There’s so many people to get through, though…” he mutters to himself, and that’s when he has an idea. “Wait, Batman has some really advanced tech, right?”

Robin raises his eyebrows at the non-sequitur. “Yeah, why?”

“So it’s advanced enough that if I gave you a list, it could run through a database and narrow the list based on certain perimeters?”

“Sure,” Robin says, suspicion crawling into his voice. “Depending on the database.”

“What about, say, hypothetically, the police database?”

“Hypothetically,” Robin deadpans.

“Hypothetically,” Tim agrees, holding his breath.

Robin doesn’t answer for a moment, chewing at his lip. “If _you_ gave me the list, I wouldn’t have to hack anything… which means I wouldn’t have to ask Batman for help. But I don’t think I specifically have _their_ database.” Tim starts to slump, disheartened, so Robin adds quickly: “But I can do you one better.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t tell you. But I have a database that kind of...encompasses the GCPD? It’s not necessarily Batman’s, and it’s not the police’s. But I have access to it, so if I used that one then I could help you out. Hypothetically.”

Tim decides not to ask. Robin probably wouldn’t tell him anyway. Instead, he reaches into his back pocket and rips off a page from his notepad. He writes the name of his burner email along with its password. “The list is the most recent email in this one. The sender is Gordon.”

Robin freezes. _“Jim_ Gordon?”

“Yeah,” Tim says, and ignores the incredulous look that Robin gives him. “There’s about 11,000 names there. Narrow those names down only to the cases that haven’t been solved. I gotta go, my mom’s gonna be home soon. Bye!”

Tim is booking it down the street so fast that he doesn’t have any time to hear Robin’s flustered response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to point out that in comparison with New York City, which had 13,000 people reported missing in 2014, Gotham actually has less people disappearing. That is not the case in this universe, but 13,000 was a little too ridiculous of a number for me to have Tim work with. Yes, the majority of them are false alarms or are found within three hours. But I would still like to acknowledge that thousands of children go missing every year without being found and, needless to say, that's some scary shit. Keep your kids close, guys.
> 
> Also, I have a dear friend who suffers from cystic fibrosis. It's a nasty disease that doesn't get as much attention as it should. Incurable, it plagues you your entire life. With the best of modern treatment and medical attention, the lifespan of someone with CF can be stretched to 40 years of age -- without all that, well, lets just say the lifespan is 'not very long'. The medication is expensive, hospital stays can get common, and there will be days where you can't go outside the house because you woke up ill enough that if you were to breathe the air outside, you would need emergency medical attention for fear of death, resulting in not being able to hold any sort of stable job. I wear a mask when I visit her if I have so much as a cough because I've been known to be a carrier of illnesses and am way too paranoid of harming her. She recently had a baby and her pregnancy was terrifying. I worry about her constantly, especially since she's a single mother who is too disabled to keep a job, living with a mother who is also disabled. In any case, I reiterate: Sebastian would not have survived long at all.
> 
> P.S. The whole Bill Nye thing was in reference to his show Bill Nye Saves The World. It's an awesome show. It had an entire episode dedicated to the dangers and myths of so-called 'alternative medicine'.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOOD NEWS! I made a TUMBLR! Every time I try to insert a link to it right here it deletes my text, so I'll do that once I find the problem -- in the mean time, my tumblr is also under the name comicroute. I'm new to the site and I would love, love, love to get messages/asks/etc. from you guys. c: No better way to learn than through experience. For right now, I'm just posting headcanons and whatnot, but I hope to post drabbles and ideas/bits and pieces from (unposted) WIPs of mine in the future to see what you guys think!
> 
> By the way, The Hill is like, the home of the richie rich. Honestly now that I think about it, I don’t really know why I didn’t just move Tim there. But yeah, think beautiful condos that stretch out over the sparking water with stay-at-home moms who have nothing better to do than buy front row seat tickets to baseball games for their five year old sons.
> 
> I apologise that this fic is starting to sincerely lack in cutesy kid stuff, but the plot is too real for these kids, and the circumstances and situations here are just plain terrifying for them. But never fear! After this fic, I’m definitely going to be writing one-shots of these boys and others in this series. I’m serious, go subscribe to the series. You’ll get all the cute Sherlock and Watson stuff you’ve had to sadly miss out on. (Also, do any of you know a single 14 year old who isn’t super pessimistic? I mean, let’s be real here).

Tim honestly isn't all that surprised when Robin drops in out of nowhere and brandishes a stack of papers with triumph.

“I didn’t want to send this anywhere digitally because Batman works in weird and mysterious ways. This is the only copy so don’t lose it,” he says. Tim gingerly takes the papers and starts thumbing through them. There’s only five pages.

“Wow,” Tim replies. “How many names are there?”

“A little less than 350, I think. Big change from almost a dozen thousand, huh?”

Tim feels relief go through his body like a tangible thing. “You have no idea. Thank you,” he says, and because he’s too exhausted to do much else, offers a small, grateful smile.

It’s enough, because Robin looks like Tim just gave him the world. “No problem,” he says awkwardly, then quickly points a thumb at the door Tim had just left. “How’d it go?”

Tim flips through the pages on his notepad that he’s filled, tucking the packet behind it, already at about ten for the day. “Boring,” he says truthfully as they begin walking. They enter the alley and Tim immediately heads for the fire escape like it’s second nature. Instead of climbing to the roof like normal, though, he slumps a few steps up from the ground, leaning against the stairs above him. The metal edges dig into his back and neck. It’s unpleasant, but moving would be more-so. Robin joins him on the step below, leaning against the railing instead of the stairs and laying out his feet beside Tim’s own. “But I think I have a suspect.”

Personally, Tim feels that the revelation should have required more fanfare, but if anything, Robin seems only mildly curious. “How? Who?” he questions, lazily swinging his legs down to the step below him so that he can have a closer look at Tim’s notes. Tim lets him.

“Hugo Strange, that guy I saw on the bus the other day, the one Jay told me to watch out for. I started including a question if people had seen him when I talked to them, and here’s the creepy thing: Every single one of them were sick.” He flips to the beginning of his notepad. “Sara Marshall, disappeared without a trace after staying home alone at sixteen years old. She was the hardest to figure out, until I realised that she should have been at school at the time, and I asked her why she wasn’t in school. Turns out she has PTSD. Her dad died three years ago in a turf war that ended with six casualties. She was sitting in a car watching the whole thing go down, and had a PTSD attack in the middle of her classroom during a Vietnam documentary.”

Robin grimaces. “Tough luck.”

Tim doesn’t grace Robin’s comment with a response. “Before, I was only focused on physical illnesses, so I missed a lot of information. There could be people on my list that I accidentally crossed out with depression or PTSD, and I might be missing crucial data.” He releases a loud sigh, letting his shoulders slump, and flips the pad closed. “But all in all, the evidence still matches up. I think Strange is kidnapping these people.”

Robin nods, not meeting his eyes, and Tim can see his lips form a thin line. “I don’t know…,” he murmurs. “I mean, that’s pretty weird, but. He’s advertising _medicine._ It makes sense that he would just go to the sick people.”

“But how does he know they’re sick in the first place?” Tim exclaims, frustrated. “I’ve been thinking about that all morning! These people have never seen him before, and they never said anything about him knowing them. It can’t be a coincidence,” he insists, frowning, “coincidences don’t exist.”

“Sure they do. It’s a coincidence that I ran into you just now.”

“No. You stalk me. That’s a calculated decision on your part, not a coincidence.”

Robin doesn’t deny it. “...It’s a coincidence that Harvey Dent managed to be in the same room as multiple acid pits?”

Tim stares at him incredulously. “Seriously? That’s just a really bad accident.”

“Okay, then it’s a _coincidence_ that we were just talking about a man who happens to be down the block from us right now.”

“No, that’s--” Tim freezes. _“What?”_ He jumps to his feet. “Two-Face is here? Where’s Batman?”

Robin straightens in alarm and yanks Tim back down by his arm before he can fish his phone out of his pocket and call 911. “No! Christ, I meant Strange, not Two-Face. Why the hell would Two-Face be here?” Before Tim can answer, Robin’s mask slits narrow suspiciously. “Hey, hold up. What happened to me being amazing and heroic and just as good as Batman?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Tim hurriedly answers, then presses on with, “Also, Strange being here isn’t a coincidence if he’s kidnapping poor people. Let’s go!”

Tim twists his wrist so that he’s the one tugging Robin off the fire escape instead of the other way around. “That’s not the coincidence, the coincidence is that we just so happened to be talking about him--” Robin digs his heels into the ground all of a sudden, jerking his wrist back and causing Tim to suddenly go barrelling backwards into his chest with a yelp. “Woah, woah, where are we going?”

“To Strange, obviously,” Tim says, attempting to subtly let go of Robin’s wrist, except Robin is holding onto him again and it isn’t going to be that easy.

“On the street? While there’s still some light in the sky? And the entire area is open and he could spot us instantly? Yeah, no way Jose,” says Robin, turning right around and heading back further into the alley despite Tim’s protests. “I saw him while I was trying to find you and already scouted for a good vantage point.”

Tim pouts and quietly mutters, “You could’ve just opened with that.”

They make their way to the back of the alley with a dead end wall that Robin scales without any difficulty at all. Tim almost makes it over himself, but his legs aren’t as long as the other boy’s so he hangs awkwardly from the top without any leverage until Robin hoists him the rest of the way by the back of his shirt. They end up in another alley that’s obscured by the wall all the way down the street, and continue down it for five or so minutes until Robin says to scale the wall again, and they end up in a smaller corridor between two buildings. Robin almost takes out his grapple gun -- it makes it halfway out of its holster at his side -- before he remembers that Tim doesn’t have one. They take the stairs.

Robin was right. The rooftop here is much higher than the rest, and better yet, it doesn’t have a ledge. They crawl to the edge on their stomachs and peer over.

Across the street is the so-called doctor from the bus yesterday, in the same black pinsuit that Tim remembers him wearing. He has his stack of flyers in hand and is giving one out to a woman in an open door, who takes it hesitantly. He’s talking, but Tim can’t read lips. He wonders absently if Robin can, but if so the hero doesn’t speak up.

“Have you been to that house yet?” Robin asks, and Tim shakes his head.

“No, but I bet someone there is sick.”

“If they weren’t, that lady wouldn’t still be listening. The people here aren’t known for putting up with shit just to be polite.” He has a point, and it’s something Tim hadn’t considered in the brief lapse of time that they’ve been laying there. The observation excites Tim, puts a smile on his face, because it feels good to have a partner who doesn’t rely on Tim for all the answers.

 _That’s not true._ Jay wasn’t _(isn’t)_ that way. Half the time, he was the one teaching Tim how to look and listen. But he didn’t ( _doesn’t)_ have the same amount of patience as Tim does, and would often miss things just because he couldn’t be bothered to care. It was almost always (almost _only)_ when they were away from the Narrows, on some separate errand that Tim was generally the one to drag them on.

Jay had _(has)_ a hard time caring about things that didn’t _(don’t)_ immediately concern him and his safety.

“Yeah, they just care about things that have to do with them,” Tim agrees, and Robin shoots him a look. Or so Tim thinks. Again, it’s hard to tell with the mask. “You seem really familiar with this area.”

“I already told you,” says Robin, wryly, “I have to be.”

“But you’re here more than Batman is. Why? And how? I bet Batman doesn’t know that much about these guys. He’s just around to kick butt and leave. But not you.”

Robin hesitates. “What’s your point?” he mutters, feigning disinterest.

“It doesn’t make sense. You _have_ a Gotham accent…,” Tim trails. Robin stiffens. “The last Robin didn’t, now that I think about it. I figured he was from one of the neutral accent areas, like Robbinsville, or the Upper East, but as a kid from a nice suburbia I can say that we don’t generally become vigilantes. Anyway, I’ve gotten really good at telling accents. My best friend taught me. You’re definitely from here, but...sometimes you sound like you’re from _The Hill,_ and then sometimes you sound like you’re from the freaking Coventry or something, or even Otisburg. I don’t know. But it isn’t… _this._ Some kid from The Hill doesn’t spend his free time learning how to think like Park Row. _No one_ from The Hill even _thinks_ of Park Row. This place just doesn’t exist on their mental map.”

“Are you calling me a spoiled rich kid?” Robin asks, voice dripping with something like sarcasm, or maybe skepticism.

“Spoiled rich kids don’t go toe to toe with Harley Quinn,” Tim points out. “But I’m just trying to...understand, I guess.”

Robin pauses for a long enough time that Tim thinks he’s just going to ignore question. He resigns himself to not getting an answer when the hero draws in a breath. “It’s just part of the job. It doesn’t matter where I’m from, I have to know everything about the city, inside the walls and outside of them.” That phrase stirs something in Tim’s head, a familiarity of sort, but it disappears as soon as Robin keeps talking. “Also, I save people every day from all sorts of areas, and it’s hard not to talk to them. You learn the way of things pretty quickly.”

Somehow, that doesn’t satisfy Tim, but he lets it drop. The answer is as good as he’s going to get, and it’s not like it’s illogical. Just...wrong.

After a few more minutes of indecipherable talk, the woman across the street hands the flier back and closes her door, and Strange starts to make his way east. Robin crawls away from the edge and gets up to stretch. Tim follows, but not without a suspicious glance cast in Strange’s direction. “We should follow,” he says.

“Duh.”

They make their way back to the fire escape. Tim thought there would be a rush, but Robin doesn’t seem all that concerned, although he does skip a few steps on the stairs and jumps off the railing in the middle of the last set. With a bound and a leap, he settles himself comfortably at the top of the brick wall that marks the end of the alley they scaled earlier and waits for Tim to catch up.

When they make it over the wall, Robin breaks off into a run down the alley and Tim, startled, gives chase. He’s surprised that he’s able to keep up with Robin’s longer legs, especially since it doesn’t seem as if Robin is going too easy on him. Tim figures it’s all the time he spends outside. The wall stops, allowing the two halves of the alleys from then on to connect, and Robin crouches behind a building to see Strange walking their way. They’ve just left the Bowery.

“You know, if someone could just give these people money, there wouldn’t be the danger of anyone listening to these creeps.”

“Or if someone just gave them free, decent medical care,” Robin continues.

“Exactly. Why can’t we just do that? Why would we let people suffer just for money?”

Robin smirks. Tim can’t figure out why until he says, “Wow, Timmy, are you a _commie?”_

Tim rolls his eyes. “I’m serious. It’s not fair.”

“You’re not in any danger from it, why do you care?” Robin asks, but not unkindly. Tim suspects the hero still agrees with him -- he has to, otherwise he would be a giant walking oxymoron -- he’s just genuinely curious.

Tim is about to mention his parents, say that if they weren’t rich then Tim would be the one in danger, but that isn’t what comes out of his mouth. “I’m sick of being worried about Jay.”

Robin turns to face him quietly. A tilt of his head serves as a ‘go on’ gesture.

“His mom was sick. He was always worried about her, and sure, so was I, but I didn’t really _get_ that Jay didn’t have anyone with a job until he got a really nasty flu one winter. But there was this other girl in my class who we thought had the flu too, until she started wheezing really hard and grabbing her chest and crying and the teacher got super upset and called the nurse, and the next day there were rumors that she had this other thing, pneumonia. I never heard of it before so I went and looked it up and then when I saw Jay, that was all I could think about. And I asked him to go to the doctors. I thought he was just too scared to go so I told him I’d go with him, but then he said that he couldn’t because he didn’t have any money.”

Tim remembers that, clearly as if it were yesterday. He remembers begging Jay to get checked out and receiving a sharp pang of fear in his gut when Jay kept refusing. It only got worse when Jay turned from looking embarrassed to looking exasperated to just plain _annoyed_ and would keep shrugging Tim off every time Tim pressed it, until Jay ignored him altogether. “And I didn’t do anything else because I didn’t know _what_ to do. I just...dropped it, because I hated that he would stop talking to me.

“He didn’t have pneumonia. He got it later, when it rained towards the end of the winter, and he was actually okay then because this lady found him and helped him get better. But if he had it the first time…” Tim shakes his head, bites his lip and glares at the street, at no particular thing. “He would have _died.”_

“There are free clinics for that sort of thing,” Robin points out.

“We didn’t know that,” Tim exclaims. Robin quickly shushes him, gesturing towards the street where Strange was getting closer. “I was 10! I didn’t know the difference between clinics and hospitals, let alone that any of them could be free. And I don’t know if he knew about them either. And there was no one around but me to tell he was sick! And he’s so freaking _stubborn--”_ Tim huffs out a breath, forces himself to calm down. “It’s not _fair.”_

“Life isn’t fair,” Robin quips back.

It’s the first time that Tim takes the moment to realise how much more pessimistic this Robin is from the last one. It’s easier to hide, with his jokes and teasing, but the minute something about _life_ comes up, the moment it’s time to be sympathetic and comforting, the first thing on Robin’s tongue always translates to ‘oh well, tough luck’ or just plain ‘that sucks’.

“You know,” Robin begins, slow and thoughtful. “There are ways you could help.”

“How? Become Robin 3.0?” Tim says sarcastically.

Robin snorts. “Yeaaah, _no._ But you _are_ probably one of the richest kids in the county. And a little birdy told me that there’s this Wayne thing coming up, a charity event. It’s for the kids cancer foundation. It’s in a few days at Wayne Manor, and you should totally show up.”

“Most charities are shady,” Tim says. Strange moves into sight, so they stop talking for a moment and shrink back until he turns a corner. It’s gotten dark by now, so Robin darts across the street, Tim following, and they start following Strange in a parallel alley.

“Not this one. Trust me. Even _Batman_ agrees that Wayne’s word is good. If there’s a single person who really is donating to kids in need, it’s that guy.”

Tim shakes his head. “I don’t have money, Robin. My parents are the ones with the money.”

“So?” Robin says. “Just show up. If you go, then your parents have to go too or else they look bad.”

It would probably work. He’d be in a lot of trouble, but it’d work. Tim bites his lip, considers it, but ultimately throws the idea away. “No. I have this to work on. I’ll ask my parents to go. It’ll look great for them so they probably will anyway, and begging seals the deal. But… this is more important. And time sensitive.”

“You could go for me?” Robin says, and then throws in a cheeky grin when Tim raises his eyebrows. “Pretty please?”

“No thanks.”

“With a cherry on top?”

“I’m a spoiled rich kid, I can buy all the cherries I want,” Tim refutes.

“Not with _your_ nonexistent money you can’t,” Robin counters just as quickly.

Despite the stealth that they should be employing, Tim laughs. Robin doesn’t even shove a hand over his mouth like usual.

* * *

They followed Strange until he disappeared into the air like smoke, and they were left standing at the foot of one of the multiple bridges leading over the Sprang River alone and leadless. Dejected, they separated -- Robin for patrol by call of Batman, and Tim for home and research.

But here’s the thing about Hugo Strange: There’s nothing on Hugo Strange.

It looks like there’s plenty. A quick Google search brings up hundreds of results. But every link Tim clicks on sounds the same.

Tim would think that for a man proclaiming the magical curing powers of his unspecified new alternative medicine, he would at least have a website. The biggest news on him is his past employment with Wayne Pharmaceuticals, which Tim only finds as a side note in a bigger article encompassing all of Wayne Enterprise’s grants.

Normally, Tim would be uninterested, but the fact that his search brought up an article like this must mean it found a keyword in his search, and he isn’t disappointed when he keeps reading and finds a blurb about Bruce Wayne himself bestowing a research grant on Strange after he was fired from Wayne Pharmaceuticals for reasons not publically released.

The interesting part is when Tim revises his search to focus in on Strange’s research grants and he finds that Bruce Wayne is the _only_ one to have given him a grant. Others haven’t for vague but adamant reasons proclaiming Strange’s research ‘useless’, ‘farfetched’, and, at one point, ‘unorthodox’ (Tim had to do a separate Google search to find the definition of that one). Even more curious is that it was a grant decided by _Bruce Wayne,_ and not just his company. What would a billionaire playboy philanthropist having expressed a clear disinterest and cringeworthy lack of knowledge (Tim, at 12, knows more than him judging by his interviews) in science be doing putting a faith in a man no one else is?

It could just be a stupid decision on his part, but it seems that Wayne truly believes that Hugo Strange could do good with his research -- he even mentions “cures for genetic mutations that could lead to groundbreaking research on cancer prevention.” According to the current article, some reporters are believing that the billionaire was just being tricked. Until now, Tim wasn’t even sure that Bruce Wayne knew what cancer _is._

Tim revises his searches to include Bruce Wayne, and that lends some more noteworthy discoveries just on their own. The most frequently suspicious ones come from a woman named Vicki Vale. In every one of her top articles, she claims that he’s more than he seems, that he’s _hiding_ something.

Rumours say that he spends his nights with a woman in his bed, but Vale has never seen him sleep with anyone, and especially not her. He claims that he has no foothold or involvement in his own company, but paperwork litters his desk at home. He has weirdly passionate opinions with no reasons to back them, and acts drunk when there isn’t any alcohol in his drinks -- she drank them herself when he wasn’t looking. He appears to a party long enough to be caught in a few photos, long enough to be seen and remembered, then disappears just as quickly. His kids are _never_ seen -- apparently, he hid one of them from the public for a good while, too, with no explanation. His relationship with his kids is suspicious at best, always hovering around them at social events when others are around, speaking for them and deflecting questions given to them. Not to mention the _bruises--_

“Tim?” his mother’s voice calls as she pokes her head into his room. He doesn’t know why, but his fingers move to exit out of his tab by impulse, leaving his Youtube window open to Bruno Mars.

“Yeah?” Tim asks, spinning around in his chair to look at her nervously. He doesn’t know why he’s nervous. She raises her forehead at him.

“It’s time for bed.”

Tim glances at the clock. It’s eleven. “It’s summer,” he protests.

“You got up early this morning and almost fell asleep in your cereal,” she points out.

He could have sworn that his parents were already at work this morning. When they weren’t, he’d had to wait until they were, effectively making the act of waking up early pointless. “You didn’t care before,” he blurts out, annoyed, and instantly regrets it.

Her eyes narrow. “You are _not_ making this a habit.” Too late. “Go brush your teeth. Now.”

Tim takes his sweet time getting ready for bed, just to spite her, and when he’s done he sits right back down at his computer chair and opens his laptop. He barely gets past the Google homepage when he hears his father walk up the stairs, though, with footsteps getting rapidly closer to his room. He slams his laptop closed (and cringes, mentally apologising to his poor, abused baby) in paranoia and leaps into bed, yanking his covers up just as the door opens and his father peers in. “You good for bed, buddy?”

Tim nods mutely before realising that it might be too dark for his father to see him. “Yeah,” he croaks, heart pounding from his mad dash to his bed.

“Okay,” the man says with a wide smile. “Your mom’ll be checking back in at some point to make sure you’re asleep.” That became a rule the first night his parents were back in town, when she told him to go to bed and found him when she got up for a midnight snack with his headphones plugged in at one in the morning.

The door opens a little wider so that his mother can see into his room as well. “Where’s your phone?”

Tim is about to pipe an obedient ‘downstairs’, but she’s already spotted it next to his laptop and walks in to grab it. “You can get it in the morning,” she says and walks back out.

The phone thing became a rule the _second_ night of his parents being back in town, when Tim woke his mother up because he tried to sneak downstairs to grab the phone charger he left by the couch at three am.

Tim throws his arm over his eyes and listens with mounting annoyance at his father’s half sympathetic, half amused chuckle as he closes the door.

He reaches into his mattress for his iPod.

It’s dead. The charger is now officially in his parents’ room.

So is the tablet.

Tim flops around onto his back, eyeing his laptop, but ultimately decides that it’s not worth it. He glares at the ceiling until he falls asleep (it only takes a few minutes).

* * *

Much to Tim’s horror, without a phone alarm to wake him up he opens his eyes at almost half past 11am. He scrambles out of bed when he sees his alarm clock blinking accusatorily at him and runs into his parent’s room to grab his phone off of their dresser just to confirm.

He’s already wasted an entire morning of investigation. _Dang it._

He needs to prove his theory about Hugo Strange, at least just to Robin, and he needs to do that by going out onto the streets and finding the clues himself. Tim knows that Robin still doesn’t totally believe him about Strange’s involvement, but Tim doesn’t understand why. It’s not farfetched. Definitely not as farfetched as a magical plant-bender lady living in the middle of Gotham, or like...half the things Robin must deal with on a daily basis. He’s just going to need to keep compiling evidence until Robin believes him. Once they find out who’s taking people, they can find out where they’re being taken, and then they can _find Jay._

The thought alone makes his chest tight. Tim doesn’t want to think about how unlikely it is that Jay would even be alive after all this time missing. He can’t think about that.

Tim fiddles around on his phone for a few minutes, checking messages and social media. Stephanie sent him a meme. Ber sent him ten snapchats complaining about French coffee. Ariana sent him two snapchats complaining about Ber complaining about French coffee.

Tim could still get a move on -- put on some clothes, grab a few granola bars and hit the streets. It’ll take thirty minutes to get to his next destination if he makes the next bus. He has nine hours of daylight, but that doesn’t mean anything when he has only four hours until his mother gets home.

Tim groans and goes to take a shower. He overslept, which means he’s too groggy to move quickly and his pajamas are clinging to his skin with sweat. When he gets back out, he feels only marginally better, but his stomach feels like it’s eating itself alive so he takes his sweet time making a sandwich. By the time he’s done with everything, has grabbed his phone and some money, it’s half-past twelve.

After a few moments of deliberation, he goes to the library.

He was in the middle of researching Strange last night. Tim may have gotten a little sidetracked, but he knows enough about the man to come to the conclusion that he’s at least suspicious. If Strange really is kidnapping people, then those people need to be going somewhere. And if no one is giving Strange funds, and nothing was about him obtaining a new job, but he’s not homeless (he has a nice suit that’s been at least nicely washed, after all)... What he probably needs most right now is money.

It’s a lead. Sort of.

When Tim reaches the library, he slides into a computer chair on the opposite side of the library from where he normally sits, a place that’s obscured by study guards and tucked away behind the Holds Pick-Up section. He logs onto a familiar site.

 

**[13:01] <gottagofast> SOMEONE LIVES **

**[13:01] <gottagofast> please say youre staying, this place is sooo dead**

**[13:01] <you> Sort of. Sorry. :c Is leg alive?**

**[13:01] <intotheDARK> He was. Went AFK a while ago, though.**

**[13:01] <you> Ah. I guess I’ll wait, then. **

**[13:01] <you> But dude, I haven’t seen you in forever! What’s up?**

**[13:01] <intotheDARK> Not much. I took the summer quarter and I regret every second of it. Teacher got the flu today so I’m just chilling. **

**[13:01] <intotheDARK> And trying to find some people to play BGO. **

**[13:01] <intotheDARK> You in?**

**[13:01] <you> BGO?**

**[13:02] <gottagofast> nooo dont do it!!!**

**[13:02] <intotheDARK> boardgame-online**

**[13:02] <gottagofast> remember that really really weird game you, me, awso and tiff played? Where people died and shit and it was crazy**

**[13:02] <you> Ohh, haha that was awesome!**

**[13:02] <intotheDARK> I’ve been trying to find some players but all the chats are dead and fast doesn’t want to play until more people join.**

**[13:02] <you> Acckk, I wish… But I need to talk to leg.**

**[13:02] <intotheDARK> Business as usual?**

**[13:02] <you> Something like that.**

**[13:02] <gottagofast> dont mind alv, he’s been super shady all month**

**[You are now speaking privately to legendsneverdie]**

**[13:02] <you> You got a minute?**

**[You are now speaking in ***RESIST*THE*PATRIARCHY***]**

**[13:02] <you> I’m on a time crunch. I’ll be back in a bit. :c Sorry I can’t play, but tell me who wins!**

**[You have set your status as AFK]**

 

Tim slumps back in his chair with a groan.

The most logical conclusion with all the small bits and pieces Tim has compiled together is that Hugo Strange is involved in human trafficking. Why else would he be kidnapping people? Especially when he’s expressed a need for money? What easier way is there?

The amount of criminal stories out there involving scientists in need of money is ridiculous. Just take Mr. Freeze, for example. Tim sits there for a few moments, thinking it all over, before he moves to minimise the tab so that he can quickly grab a nearby book while he waits. But as soon as he moves the cursor, his PM tab lights up with a new message.

 

**[13:08] <legendsneverdie> You caught me at a good time. What’s up?**

**[13:08] <you> I need to ring in that favor.**

 

It takes only a few sentences to explain, because Tim doesn’t want to give away his why’s and how’s, and the thing he likes about legendsneverdie the most is that he understands the desire for privacy like that. But Tim still glances around the library in paranoia with every new message because this is the first time he’s ever done anything so blatantly--

 

**[13:32] <legendsneverdie> Done. Sending you a copy.**

 

Tims blinks incredulously. Just like that? He had expected it to take longer. Much longer. As in, he’ll check in tomorrow kind of longer. It took awsomeguy a few hours just to narrow down a cell signal to an entire block. But to…

 

**[13:32] <you> You hacked a man’s bank account in twenty minutes?**

**[13:32] <legendsneverdie> Hack is such an ugly word. If he was raking in money like you thought, it would have taken a little longer. He probably would have split up his earnings through a few accounts, taken some twists and turns to throw me off his tail, but no. It’s just one normal Chase account. Also, I didn’t TECHNICALLY hack.**

 

Tim decides not to ask about the details of that.

 

**[13:32] <you> Wait, so he’s NOT depositing money into his account? At all?**

**[13:32] <legendsneverdie> See for yourself.**

 

He’s right. It takes Tim a while to process what he’s seeing, because his prediction was so off it’s _laughable._ If Hugo Strange were involved in human trafficking, he would be depositing large sums of money _somewhere,_ or at the very least depositing enough money to make the question of where he’s getting it suspicious. Or even, at the _very_ least, _paying his bills._ But no. Hugo Strange isn’t depositing money at all.

In fact, he’s in _debt._

_Thousands of dollars in debt._

 

**[13:34] <you> How is he not bankrupt?**

**[13:34] <legendsneverdie> Just filed for it, actually.**

 

After saving what legendsneverdie had sent to his harddrive and saying his goodbyes, Tim pushes away from the computer desk in a daze. He ducks his head and makes his way out of the library through the back because he feels weird and paranoid being seen by anyone after all...that.

He wanders his way to the bus stop and heads in the opposite direction from his home. It’s twenty minutes to two, and he has at least an hour and a half before he needs to make sure he’s at home.

He opens his text messages to respond to Stephanie’s meme from that morning, and it’s only then, before he clicks to open her message, that he remembers something that he forgot. He doesn’t text many people. Cass can’t write and Ber only likes Snapchat. Tim texts only Stephanie and very occasionally Ariana, so it isn’t a surprise to him that weeks old text threads are still at the top of his history.

Tim sees John’s name, taps on it impulsively, stares at their last conversation, and then presses call before he can second guess himself.

It’s been _much_ longer than a week. But the call barely rings before it ends. Tim waits for the beep of the voicemail. “Hey,” he begins awkwardly, picking at the ripped pleather of the bus seat in front of him. “It’s been awhile since you said you were going to call back. I kind of...well, went ahead and did that thing where I made myself into a one-man army against crime without you. It’s been really weird and it would be cool if you could… I don’t know, give me advice? Well anyway, I hope everything’s okay. Call me back.”

Tim cringes at his own voice. He thinks about texting, but decides against it. John will see the voicemail and if he would rather text, he will.

It’s barely five minutes later when his phone starts to ring, the caller ID John taking up his lock screen. Tim fumbles with how quickly he tries to pick it up. “Hey!” he says, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. He’s surprised at how much he misses his mysterious, unnamed companion.

But the person that answers doesn’t sound anything like John. “Who are you?” a woman demands, her voice dark and smooth.

“Uh...who are _you?”_ Tim squeaks, and then curses himself. This is not the time for his voice to crack.

And yet, the way he answered must have indicated something, because the woman seems to relax her tone. “That’s unimportant,” she says. There’s a pause. “Where did you get this number?”

“It was given to me,” Tim says slowly. A white lie never hurt anybody, right? “I’m a friend of John’s. My name is Alvin.”

A longer pause, and Tim takes this time to remember that _John isn’t his real name, crap, crap, crap--_ “Okay, Alvin,” the woman continues, silky smooth, and Tim’s thought process screeches to a halt because it’s like she didn’t even notice that Tim used the wrong name. “Did he tell you where he was going?"

“You mean... John?” Tim says, testing the waters.

“Yes, who else?” she answers impatiently.

Tim clears his throat. “He said something about Bialya? Uh, told me he was going to call back in a week, and that was almost two weeks ago, Tuesday.”

“Of course he did,” the woman hisses, slightly away from the phone, as if the response wasn’t meant for him. “Thank you, Alvin.” She hangs up.

Tim slowly puts down the phone, staring at the screen until it goes black.

He doesn’t think he’ll be hearing from John for a while.

Tim steps off the bus at the edge of the Bowery and the sight of the green light pole with its cracked paint and the ripped fence behind it, trampled papers and posters on the ground from where they fell from their post, is something comforting and familiar. It alarms Tim by a little bit, how he’s come to find these blocks as a place where he _wants_ to be instead of where he _has_ to be, and he’s under no illusion that it isn’t in some part because of Jay, and how much the cracked asphalt and skittish residents remind Tim of his best friend. He makes his way down the block, to the door where he and Robin saw Strange at the day before, and knocks quietly. The neighborhood is quiet at this time of day and the knock rings out as loud as a bell.

There’s the sound of barking and a woman scolding, and then the door opens to reveal the same haggard lady from the day before, but this time she looks downtrodden and forlorn. Her eyes and nose are red, and there are tear tracks down her cheeks.

The sight is a punch to Tim’s gut. She doesn’t say hello, just stares at him silently, and whatever Tim was going to say before is no longer appropriate. Instead, with the feeling like dread building behind his heart, he says, “I’m sorry. I think I got the wrong door.”

Behind the woman, Tim can see a man pacing the living room with a phone in his hand. The woman nods and closes the door.

The man talks, his voice coming clearly through the open window, “Nothing? There’s nothing? She was here...she was right here, she…”

Tim walks away.

* * *

“Oh god, seriously, this? I don’t know, I thought you had better taste. Call me silly for holding a little faith in this cruel, cruel world,” Tim whines from where he’s laying on a soft, plain bed, arm thrown over his eyes. Cass grins at him from beside a laptop, where a song from her choice of downloaded music files is blaring through her speakers.

 

_“Oh don't you dare look back_

_Just keep your eyes on me_

_I said you're holding back_

_She said shut up and dance with me…”_

 

“No, no, nope, we’re done here,” Tim exclaims, rolling over and intentionally leaning obnoxiously into her space to search up Youtube. He pulls up XX Intro.

He watches her reaction intently. She tilts her head, considers it, and then starts nodding her head along to the beat.

“See? Good. This is good. Now give me the laptop, I’m going to start downloading all the songs you need in your quest for culture. XX isn’t culture, by the way, it’s just good music. But what is this? You don’t even have Queen. Queen, Cass. How dare you call yourself an American,” he rants. “Actually, you don’t call yourself anything. And Queen isn’t American. First thing you _have_ to learn: The only good American things are British. We steal all of their stuff and it’s worked out just fine so far.”

She’s laughing, in the silent, cute way that she does, where she covers her mouth just in case any sound does decide to escape. Tim is dying to figure out whether or not she _can_ laugh, but she refuses to satisfy his curiousity. She’s probably just doing it to spite him.

“I can’t even introduce you to beauty of dubstep until you’re at least educated in the basics. This is terrible. Living life without Singularity or ODESZA. How could you?”

Tim hasn’t seen her since school got out, and he hasn’t seen her outside of school, period. But once he got home that day, he could barely wait until his mother got home too before he declared that he was going to a friend’s house. He’s restless, he feels like he can barely stay inside his own skin, and sitting at home doing nothing is absolutely out of the question. At the very least, this way he has company.

Cass may be silent but she’s the furthest thing from still. She’s much livelier than people give her credit for. Also, judging by all the Jackie Chan movies, martial arts posters and belts and trophies she has littered around, she has a hobby that requires more than a little movement and Tim is probably going to have to ask her to teach him some moves. He’s procrastinating because he wants to savor the last moments of dignity he has before she kicks his ass.

But for now, this is comfortable and nice, laying in bed and listening to one song after the next. Tim didn’t realise how much he could learn about a person based only on their taste in music, but when music supplies the only words he has to go on, it’s interesting how easy it is to use as a reference point.

It was the same way with Jay.

Tim thought he would have to struggle to get her to listen to dubstep, but he doesn’t. In fact, the moment he introduces Cass to melodic dubstep, she’s hooked. Most of the songs have words, but he doesn’t think she can understand half of them by the way some are so distorted, and she seems to prefer the ones that are wordless. He figures that she would probably like classical music, she would understand the emotion in them better than he ever could, and resolves to at least show her David’s Lamentation after this. Tim wonders what the reason behind her preference for lyric-less music is. He wishes he could ask.

He could, technically. But Tim discovered pretty early on that while Cass will try her best to answer any question, it also frustrates her. One of the things that makes her the most upset is when she’s trying to describe something without all the necessary tools -- it’s disabling, and the act of trying to speak only serves to remind her of that.

When Tim arrived at her house -- Barbara gave him the address at the beginning of the summer -- he hadn’t told her he was coming, and the look on her face was priceless. She had opened the door with a blank face, and in miliseconds it had lit up like a bulb. Her excitement and enthusiasm to show him everything in her room was tangible. The last thing Tim wants is to do something that could upset the good feelings he can see running through her.

After a while of companionable silence filled with the soft lyrics of George Michael drifting from the laptop, Tim rolls off of Cass’ bed. At some point, Cass had slid down next to him and pressed their shoulders together, and she frowns now at the loss of contact. “Just going to the bathroom. Don’t get up, I saw it on my way in.”

Tim makes his way down the hall, fighting not to slip on the hardwood. He hasn’t taken off his socks yet. Hardwood is cold and he’d rather break a leg than have cold feet. He looks at the stairs.

The bathroom he saw was downstairs, but the stairs don’t have carpet and Tim isn’t brave enough to go back down with his socks still on. He could probably ask Cass to show him, or just take off his socks, but the upstairs isn’t very big. It’s just two hallways intersecting. He could probably find it on his own. Tim starts to wander down the hall he hasn’t explored yet.

“Hey, Tim!”

Tim turns around to see Barbara in her room through an open door. She’s seated at a desktop, the screen facing him. “Oh, hey,” he greets, returning her smile. The room is much more personable than Cass’ -- posters of Batman and Robin cover the sunflower yellow walls right alongside an Imagine Dragons poster and a gigantic bookshelf sprawled over an entire wall. Her bed is purple and adorned with at least four pillows, with two more on the ground, and there are stuffed animals peeking out from under the covers.

It’s endearing. Barbara follows his gaze to the rest of her room and huffs. “Don’t pretend that your room is any better.”

It is, actually (he has a maid). But he doesn’t have time to tell her that before he gets distracted. “What happened?” he asks, gesturing to her right foot encased in a cast.

She swivels around in her chair to face him. “I fell down some stairs at work,” she sighs, frowning down at it. “Word of advice? Don’t do that. It’s not fun.”

Tim winces in sympathy. “Yeah, I bet. Uh, I was actually just trying to find the bathroom?”

His eyes wander up to her computer screen as she says, “Oh, you were headed in the right direction. Two more doors to the left.”

A few awkward seconds of silence pass before Tim realises what was said and nods jerkily. “Right, thanks.” He lingers for half of a second before saying a quick goodbye and rushing to the bathroom.

He stays seated on the toilet for longer than necessary, staring down at his hands in horror.

The window open on Barbara’s computer -- he _knows_ that site. He knows that site intimately well, and he _definitely_ knows the username logged in at the top right of the screen. Tim tries splashing water in his face, but it doesn’t help.

When he gets back to Cass’ room, dazed, she enthusiastically starts playing a Maroon 5 song that must have loaded itself on Youtube while Tim was gone. He doesn’t know how Youtube got to Maroon 5, but Cass clearly has no problems with it.

 

_“I am in misery_

_And there ain't nobody_

_Who can comfort me…”_

 

He wonders if it’s too melodramatic if he agrees.

* * *

If Tim already thought that his day was the worst, it’s nothing compared to when a man knocks on Cass’ door and pokes his head in to tell them it’s time for dinner. Well, tell Tim it’s time for dinner, anyway. Cass had wandered into Barbara’s room to find a movie she had left in there. Tim was too scared to follow her. He didn’t know what he would do if he had to face Barbara again and act normal.

Tim stares into the face of Jim Gordon and thinks that his life is officially over. Done. Nada. Adios amigos, Timothy Jackson Drake is _screwed._

Jim Gordon’s face falls like he’s just seen a ghost and is debating whether or not science can explain it. Luckily, they’re saved from words when Cass reaches him, Home Alone in her hands (it would make sense that her favourite genre would be physical comedy, Tim notes. She would probably really like Tom and Jerry). Gordon stares at her for a moment, uncomprehendingly, just long enough for her to start to frown, before he ruffles her hair and tells her to go downstairs before her food gets cold.

In other words, that’s how Tim finds himself sitting around a dinner table with one of his closest friends, who’s mute, the police officer he blackmailed recently, and the woman he just asked to hack into the bank account of a suspected human trafficker a few hours earlier. Gordon stares at him intensely from across the table while Cass glances worriedly between them, and Barbara blissfully ignores the tension in favor of handing him a Pepsi.

“Dad, this is Tim. Remember Cass’ new friend I told you about?” Gordon doesn’t even glance Barbara’s way, his gaze pinned unwaveringly on Tim. “Tim, this my dad.”

Well, so much for keeping his identity a secret. Tim swallows and manages to get out a, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gordon.”

When Gordon doesn’t answer, Barbara says, “Oh, I’m sure you can just call him Jim,” and shoots her father a stern look. Tim definitely won’t be calling him Jim.

Cass nudges his knee with her own as the woman who takes twenty minutes to hack into bank accounts chirps a happy, “So, Tim, how has your summer been?” Tim takes a few good seconds to respond. She’s the only one talking. Gordon hasn’t even touched his plate.

“Good,” Tim croaks, and takes a _long_ gulp of his soda.

When Barbara finally manages to engage Gordon in a conversation, Tim tries desperately to ignore the fact that the man is _still watching him_ so that he can lean over to Cass.

“Next time, we’re going to my place,” he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: That last scene has been planned since last year and I totally thought if it before I saw Spiderman: Homecoming, I swear.
> 
> But AHHH guys, we've reached a milestone. Well, I'VE reached a milestone. 100k words! This is my first fic to have reached 100k words, and that's super duper important because I established a goal for myself a few years back that the moment I succeeded in writing a coherent story to 100k words, I would allow myself to start writing my own original novel. I'm already working on the outline for it. It's futuristic sci-fi involving humans having migrated to different planets, a civil war, racial/social justice, a matriarchal society, and (of course) tyrannical governments. I'm so ready to get this baby started.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic won't have a consistent posting rate. This is the first time I'm posting a fic in years that hasn't been all written out beforehand, so everything depends on my life outside of the clutches of fanfiction, but I'm trying my best!
> 
> Update: I now have a tumblr under the username comicroute! I'm very new to the site so I would love some company in the form of a message or chat!


End file.
